In Death, Standby
by Sophisma
Summary: After the infamous massacre of the Potters, young Harry Potter went missing. It doesn't really help that years later he turns up again, a bit darker, stranger and more erratic than anyone had hoped for. But Harry hardly cares, in the end it's his decision on which side he will fight; dark, light or no side at all. Eventually HP/LV... of sorts.
1. Prologue

**Warnings: **shamelessly** AU**, slight unavoidable **OOC**, occasional crude **language**, high probability of **violence, torture, gore and death** as well as other such morbid and **dark themes**. The story includes also **slash** which means homosexual interactions between men and most likely whilst Harry is still **underage**, so be warned! And even though there will be **no graphic sex, there's obvious hints** of it along the way. There will probably be a great deal of **grammar and spelling mistakes** but, please, try to bear with them and don't let them stop you from enjoying the story.

If any of these things offend you or make you uncomfortable, refrain from whining because you've been warned beforehand. While whiners will be ignored, constructive criticism will always be welcomed and taken in consideration.

**Disclaimer: **I write fanfiction which pretty much proves that I own absolutely nothing and make no profit. I just like to play around with other people's playthings.

**A/N: **I love those stories where, instead of going for the kill, Voldemort takes Harry with him. So, I decided to write one. I hope that this is a bit different from all the other versions and that I've managed to bring something new to the rather used and worn plot idea.

Now, other than that it seems worth mentioning that I wrote this prologue quite a long time ago and though I have bits and pieces of the story written they are nothing concrete. I'm posting this mostly to gain the motivation to carry on writing because I have this burning _need _of finishing this. I know what I want to do this story, but the problem is that this knowledge is killing my motivation to finish the story. "Why write since I already know what's going to happen anyway?" this has been my excuse and I've really come to hate it.

Another thing I want to mention right from the beginning is that I don't consider anything under eight thousand words worth being called a chapter, so it's likely that most of the chapters will be rather long. Therefore, the writing process can take its sweet time and sometimes the updates may take ages to appear. However, I do intend to finish this. One day.

_Enjoy and review!_

…o0o…

**I**n **D**eath, **S**tandby

**Prologue**

_The Wayward Child and Scheming Old Men_

…o0o…

For better part of his bizarre early childhood Harry believed himself to be a snake. A rather dreadfully deformed snake, true, but a snake nonetheless.

This theory was supported by small everyday things that marked Harry's small and insignificant life. He was mostly raised by a snake and lived amongst the other snakes of the Manor. He spoke in the tongue of snakes, sang in those soft syllables that rolled easily off his tongue like honey. Warm spots near fires and human bodies attracted him like a magical garden attracted gnomes. Harry even _felt _like a snake most of the time, and the rest of the time he was called 'little snakeling'.

Later, when Harry looked back to this childish belief and his years as a snake, he could never quite pinpoint the exact moment when the seed of doubt—the hesitant, horrifying doubt that he might be a human, after all—was planted into his mind. It had been a long and arduous process, a string of small incidents that shook his faith and his deeply rooted denial.

The earliest of those events, which Harry could still recall, was the time when the man with red eyes had told him to walk. The request—which hadn't really been a request at all, since the man with red eyes never _asked _for anything, but Harry hadn't yet known it back then—had come as a surprise since Harry hadn't really known that he _could _walk. They had had a very short but heated glaring contest over the matter until the man with red eyes had snapped, pulled out his wand and given Harry the ultimatum; he would either walk or he would cry and walk. In the end Harry _had _cried, quite wretchedly and definitely whole-heartedly until small teary rivers run down his dirty face, but he had also _walked _which, at the time, had been a huge blow to his belief of his snakeish nature.

One time Harry had failed to dislocate his jaw and very nearly choked on a blackbird he had dried to swallow whole. The man with the red eyes had been absolutely livid after that and had firmly forbidden Harry from eating anything he hadn't approved first. The curse Harry had been dealt as a punishment paled in comparison to the discomfort of coughing up feathers all week.

Harry had happily babbled in the tongue of snakes, until the man with red eyes had forced him to learn another much cruder and harsher language, an ugly _human _language, that the man with red eyes called English. Harry used this _English _willingly only when he was angry and cursed at the man with red eyes with words he didn't completely understand.

However, the last and most devastating blow against Harry's inner snake hit him on one beautiful autumn day when he was still quite young. Nagini, Harry's most trusted friend and protector, had been cranky for days, nearly weeks, when Harry finally gathered his courage to ask what was wrong. Nagini first complained about itching, scratching and nosy little hatchlings, but finally grudgingly explained that she was shedding her skin which was apparently very uncomfortable but also unavoidable. It was a confusing explanation, but any further questions Nagini hissed off rudely and told Harry to go entertain himself somewhere else.

Harry pondered carefully over what he had heard, turned the new information around in his childishly simple mind and came up with only one conclusion. As a snake, it was his job to do the same as Nagini did, shed his skin. The first few days of his attempt he tried same as he had witnessed Nagini doing: he rubbed himself against furniture, rocks, corners of the walls, every suitably rough surface and a few not so suitable ones in hopes to get his ghostly pale skin to peel off. It soon turned out to be useless. It hurt a little after a while and his skin turned pink and red, but there were no signs of it getting any looser than it was before. When thinking it over again Harry realised that it had to be because of his faulty scales. Whilst Nagini had beautiful, large and symmetrical scales covering her skin all over, Harry had no scales at all, just an ugly even skin that was useless in every sense of the word. It was too soft, too smooth and way too colourless. And apparently way too tightly attached to his flesh, too.

The next evening Harry nicked a sharp table knife from the dinner table and hid it in his sleeve. The cold press of the metal against his wrist distracted him while he ate, but he didn't let it show, just slurped down his meal quietly, and escaped from the dining hall as soon as he could. He run through the familiar dusty halls until he was enclosed in the safety in his bedroom and crumpled into a heap on the floorboards. He laid there panting for a moment, trying to catch his breath and calm his nerves, before pulled the knife from his sleeve and stared at the glimmering blade anxiously.

With a deep breath to brace himself, he set to work.

The first cut hurt the worst.

Or perhaps it was the second?

Or maybe the ache was worst where Harry bit into his lower lip to keep from whimpering, and the coppery taste of blood flooded his mouth. However, it was the first tear that escaped his eyes and dribbled down into the gaping wounds that made him cry out. It only got worse, when Harry had enough single cuts crossing up and down his arms and legs, so that he could grip one shred of skin and _pull_. He had to stuff his small fist into his mouth to keep from screaming, but managed in the end.

In the end, all the caution was useless. Harry had barely got properly started, and most of his skin was still tightly in place, when the man with red eyes already emerged from the shadows of the room just as silent and intimidating as always. Harry first suspected that he had failed to be quiet enough and that the man with red eyes had somehow managed to hear his quiet whimpers all the way across the Manor. But maybe the entire truth. Such things as whining or crying had little to no effect on the man. It was more likely that he had caught the faint scent of blood and that the metallic smell had tempted him to wander through the halls to investigate.

Whatever it was, it didn't really matter at this point, for Harry knew the game was lost. The expression on the man's pale face predicted the Armageddon to rain on Harry the moment the man had composed himself enough to form proper words for incantations. Harry stared frozenly for a while, the man staring right back, before he slowly pulled the crimson coated knife from his flesh and set it carefully on the floor. He hid his stifled tears and fixed an expression as innocent as possible onto his face. Of course the man with red eyes didn't much care about innocence or guilt when he was in a _mood_ but it was worth a try.

The man with red eyes crossed the room in a flash, grabbed a good handful of Harry's dark hair and _pulled_, forcing the child to look up to him. Harry didn't let a whimper escape but stared defiantly right back. The man with red eyes didn't like crying, or whining, or complaining. Well, he rarely liked it when Harry opened his mouth at all, and being as deep in trouble as Harry already was, he wasn't about to egg the man's infamous temper on.

"What do you think you are doing, you foolish child?" the man with red eyes snarled, voice thick with ire. Harry swallowed past the lump in his throat, sniffed the clear his runny nose and wiped the tear tracks from his cheeks before forced himself to speak.

:_No English,_: he whispered, :_Snake's tongue_.: Even the silky syllables of his own language seemed to hitch in his throat. Harry couldn't even imagine how the sharp and cruel sounds of English would squeeze the last breath out of his weary body. He wished that the man with red eyes would understand, even without an explanation.

Perhaps the man did, since after a barely audible sigh, the familiar hisses filled Harry's ears. :_Fine. But you will explain this nonsense, nonetheless, no matter what language we use.__**:**_

Harry sniffed again, shifted closer, closing his hands around the man's black robes, and nodded. It took him a few tries, but finally his explanation got articulate enough for the man with red eyes to catch on the general gist of it. Then he asked a few more questions, all very difficult to answer and each answer making Harry feel more foolish, as he described his life as a snake. Somewhere along the rather long and complicated story the man with red eyes had started and then again ceased with his healing spells and just listened intently. Harry wished to tell him to continue with the spells because his arms and legs were still aching all over, but decided better of it and just hurried quickly through his explanation. When he had voiced all there was to be told, he quieted down and just waited for the man with red eyes to comment on it.

:_You are not a snake, you foolish child_,: the man with red eyes and there was a strange undertone in the words, as if the man wasn't sure if he should be angry, disbelieving, or irritated, or perhaps something else altogether.

:_Wh-What?_: Harry asked quietly, his breath hitching again.

:_I cannot even fathom what made you believe you were a snake,_: the man with red eyes mumbled, more to himself than to Harry. :_Though, this does explain certain things. I need to have a word with Nagini._:

:_But I. . . _: Harry begun, prepared to defend his status as a serpent but the words melted on his tongue and refused to emerge. None of his explanations—none of his excuses—sounded right even in his mind. Now that he really thought about it, what _made _him believe that he was a snake? No snake could walk, run or skip like Harry did. There was no snake which could speak in human tongues like Harry could. Snakes didn't read like Harry was learning to do.

:_You are stopping me from being a snake,_: Harry realised and raised his wide accusing eyes to the man he had always thought he could place his trust upon. :_You make me walk on legs like a _human_. You don't let me talk in snake tongue, _my _tongue, anymore! You don't let me eat what I want, but make me eat at the table and use knives and forks! You make me sleep in a bed_ _and I can't bask by the fire all night. You're taking it all from me. You're forcing me to stop! Just how mean _are you_?:_

A peculiar expression crossed the man's face but it faded quickly as the man raised a hand and rubbed his eyes with his long, slender, fingers tiredly.

:_Listen to me, you brat. . . Harry. . . If you truly were a snake, I'd let you do whatever you believe it is snakes do day in and day out. You could eat all the blackbirds and pixies you wished and sleep on the floor by the fire every night, but you are not a snake,: _the man with red eyes said as the crimson eyes bored into Harry in the most unsettling manner. :_And I think you know that much already. Clinging to your foolish hopes will not turn you into a snake, no matter how much you wish it would._:

Harry swallowed around the thick lump of despair again and stared right back at those distressing red eyes before told quietly, :_But I'd be a really good snake. I promise._:

A corner of the man's thin lips twisted into a mockery of a smile. :_If that was you asking me to transfigure you into a snake, I am afraid that I will have to decline. You are much more valuable to me as a human._:

:_But I'll make a really awful human,_: Harry tried one more time, but the man with red eyes just shook his head.

:_There are too many appalling humans in this world. Useless and weak ones. Inferior ones that should not be allowed to live in the first place,_: the man with red eyes explained. :_Trust me, I shall ensure that you will one day make an exceptionally good human being when compared to those pathetic creatures. Nothing of mine will be anything less than perfect and you will be no exception to the rule._:

Harry slowly mulled this over and found the words surprisingly comforting. There was truth hidden in the words, after all, since anything and everything the man with red eyes did he did precisely and perfectly. If he intended to make Harry into an exceptionally good human being, then he _would _do it, no matter how terrible subject Harry would appear to be in the beginning.

Harry's fingers curled tighter around the black fabric of the robes, clinging to the man with red eyes nearly desperately, as he nodded his acceptance. :_Alright then._:

The man with red eyes offered a satisfied half-smirk before concentrated onto his magic again. Harry watched how the tip of the wand run precise patterns over Harry's arms and legs, while pale and flawless skin grew over the wounds and slashes where Harry had managed to rip it off.

:_You're really good at this_,: Harry complemented the man with red eyes and received back a small half-amused snort and a thank-you. Harry was quite sure he was being mocked, but didn't care because a more important thought rose into his mind. :_Did I come from an egg?_:

:_I thought we established already that you are a human? So no, you didn't. Humans don't come from eggs_,: the man with red eyes sighed, annoyed again. He grabbed Harry's thin wrist and told him to spread his fingers so he could heal the rather shredded digits as well. Harry obeyed quietly, thinking about what he had just been told.

:_Then why don't I have any parents? I read from a book that humans have parents because someone has to take care of the hatchlings. They don't lay eggs, you see, like snakes do, and human children are quite stupid, so they can't take care of themselves,: _Harry explained and felt quite proud for knowing so much. Then he paused, realising that now he was a human child himself, and wondered if he was stupid as well.

He didn't notice that the man with red eyes had paused, too, frozen in the middle of the spell and now stared down at Harry with a slight frown.

When Harry noticed, he quickly shook his head in a reassuring manner.

:_It's alright, I suppose, since I have you and Nagini,_: the child assured, not wanting to annoy the man with red eyes any further than he already had. And besides, Harry quite believed that the man with red eyes, and Nagini, too, could stop him from being stupid a hundred times better than any parents ever could.

:_You don't have parents because I killed them_,: the man with red eyes said coldly and went back to patching Harry up with an uncaring look on his face. Harry, in his part, was quite startled by the admission and stared at the man with red eyes with wide emerald eyes.

:_Oh,_: Harry commented finally. He wasn't sure what else to say or what to do, but after a while he asked, :_Why?_:

:_Because I wanted you,_: the man with red eyes said simply and his wand flicked the final finishing touch on Harry's now healthy fingers.

:_Me?_: Harry asked and his eyes just grew wider.

:_Yes. Preferably dead as well_,: the man with red eyes said. When realization of what exactly the man meant dawned to Harry, he twitched nervously as if to pull away from the man. He didn't, though, just pulled back enough to take a good look at the man's face. By the calm look on the man's face, it was obvious that he was just as serious as always.

:_But I'm alive,_: Harry said hesitantly. He was a bit worried that if he pointed out the truth the man with red eyes would realise it as well and kill Harry on the spot. After all, the man wanted Harry _preferably dead_, which did sound rather alarming in Harry's opinion.

:_You refused to die,_: the man with red eyes replied and tucked away his wand, before faced Harry's curious and slightly scared look with an unfazed stare of his own. The crimson eyes searched over Harry's face, before a hand rose and one long finger traced the strange lightning bolt-shaped scar on Harry's forehead. Harry had had the scar as long as he could remember, but this was the first time that the man with red eyes had acknowledged its existence. Harry's peered upwards, as he tried to follow the finger tracing the scar.

:_I cast the curse and it hit you right here,_: the man with red eyes said. There was almost an absent look in his eyes, as if he was gazing through time into the night when it happened, and recalled it all very clearly. :_But you lived and the only sign proving that the curse had worked at all was this mark._: Suddenly sharpness was back in the red eyes, and all their crushing attention concentrated onto Harry, staring him down. :_I marked you as mine, and as long as this mark stays here, you belong to me. Do you understand?_:

Harry gulped but nodded, nonetheless.

:_I understand.: _And he did understand, perfectly.

The man with red eyes nodded, as well, indicating that he was satisfied with the answer, before stood up and pulled Harry along with him. Neither of them spoke again, for everything worth saying had already been said, but it was then and there that Harry realised that it didn't matter what_ exactly_ he was. He was Harry and the man with red eyes could mould him with mere words into whatever he wanted Harry to be, be it a snake, a human or a flobberworm. And in all honesty, it was an arrangement Harry had absolutely nothing against.

"Good night," in the tongue of humans, was the last thing Harry whispered, before sleep claimed him that night. If the man with red eyes wanted Harry to be a human, then a human he'd get. When Harry received a silent "sleep, child" right back, he knew that the man with red eyes knew it as well.

…o0o…

After Harry became human, everything started to seem much more logical. Suddenly the things he had hated doing before, such as using forks and knifes, bathing regularly or learning to read and write, were the most obvious things to do. The weird things he had read from the books begun to make sense. The strange words the man with red eyes sometimes spoke to him became comprehensible. It was all so _clear_, so terrifyingly and magnificently _human, _that Harry could barely believe it. It beat being a snake by far, and after a few weeks of adjustment, Harry could only look back and wonder how he could have been so stupid.

The man with red eyes was obviously pleased with Harry's progress, since he slowly and a bit hesitantly begun telling Harry about _the_ _secrets_. Dangerous, but marvellous arts of magic, the man with red eyes said and looked at Harry just as intently as always, but his tone gained a new softer tone, as if even the man with red eyes was in awe with these secret things.

Of course Harry had known about magic since forever. He had seen spells cast before he could even talk and the library was flooded with books on the matter. The man with red eyes had told him about magic before, taught a few spells even, and talked about theories and different types of magic. But those were _nothing _like the secrets things. Those were magic, too, but _different _kind of magic. Something much more fascinating and much more delicate. Just speaking of them was exciting and scary at the same time.

When the man with red eyes talked about them, he used words such as _powerful, exceptional _and _sacred_. When he got his most feverous, he spoke about _immortality and forbidden. _Harry learned new words like _legilimency, necromancy _and _sacrificial magicks,_ and each time he heard a new one, he'd run off to the library to search it out. He always listened carefully, and even though he most of the time didn't understand completely, it was interesting in a way that nothing else had ever been. Given that even the man with red eyes seemed to be so in love with these secret things, then they _must _be something absolutely wonderful. The man always begun one of his speeches by mentioning magic and always finished with another praising to magic. Harry quickly picked up a habit to take a deep breath in the silence that followed each lecture and softly sigh out "I really like magic", which sometimes gained him a rare, stiff, half-smile from the man with red eyes.

The only time when the man with red eyes seemed as intent as he was when speaking about the _secret things, _was when he mentioned Hogwarts.

Harry wasn't sure what exactly this Hogwarts was, except an old castle. The way the man with red eyes sometimes spoke about it made Harry think it was the man's home, but then the discussion wound gain a more agitated tone and a name _Dumbledore _would be mentioned and the image would be destroyed. The man with red eyes could spent hours describing the corridors and halls when he was feeling nostalgic. And Harry always listened, even though he didn't find this Hogwarts nearly as interesting as the secret magic.

Once, speaking about the Hogwarts, the man touched very lightly on the topic of '_the Chamber',_ but then grew rather quiet and thoughtful, leaving it there.

When Harry asked, "What of the chamber?" the man merely looked at him seriously.

"I have yet to decide. If it concerns you, you will know," he replied after a while. The man with red eyes spoke nothing more after that, and Harry didn't dare to pester him. The serious look didn't leave the man's face and he remained deep in thought till the nightfall.

…o0o…

Harry was invisible that night.

Of course he wasn't _really_ invisible, since he knew no spells that could make him appear so and he couldn't get his hands on to one of those fancy cloaks or amulets he had sometimes read about. No, Harry didn't need such things to become invisible. He had learned long time ago that if he was silent enough and stood still enough, people could walk right past him without noticing his presence. It was a useful skill, especially when one lived in a place like this and spent his days surrounded by people like these.

At the moment, Harry stood motionless in a corner of the entry hall, wrapped into dusky darkness that so often lurked in the halls of the house he called home, and watched how the strange black-clad people paraded through the front doors again. _Death Eaters_, the man with red eyes called them. Each time when he spoke of them, the malicious, smug, glint in his disturbing eyes seemed to intensify. _Death Eaters_, and the words were branded deep into Harry's young and curious mind.

When Harry was younger and more foolish, he had believed that the man had grafted these creatures himself. Surely, only the man with red eyes could come up with something so horrendous and twisted, and yet beautifully graceful at the same time. But when Harry had once timidly voiced his thoughts, the man had cackled a nearly delighted laughter and said that these people were his followers, his most loyal servants. Harry had not spoken of it again, because that mad laugh had truly terrified him at the time. But even now, when Harry stared in wonder at the dark figures, he couldn't help pondering if there was actually flesh behind those masks, or if these people were just ghosts and nightmares hidden from the prying eyes by black robes and golden masks.

"Death Eaters," he muttered quietly to himself and the spell of invisibility cracked under the weight of the words. One of the dark figures caught the silent whisper and his head snapped into Harry's general direction, gaze piercing through the shadows into the corner where Harry stood. Neither Harry nor the Death Eater staring at him moved for a while; Harry unsure of what to do and the Death Eater obviously weighing the chances that he was imagining the small child in the room. Slowly the dark figure raised his hand and nudged the arm of another Death Eater, before pointed to the corner and Harry. More heads were turning towards Harry, but he didn't move, just stared unblinkingly at the scene.

"It's a kid."

"What the. . .?"

"Is it real?"

Harry considered giving negative response to the last question in an effort to distract the unexpected attention he was receiving, but decided against of it. The man with red eyes didn't like it when he spoke without being spoke to, and he especially didn't like it when Harry said things that weren't true. There were many small things like that the man with red eyes couldn't stand, but Harry had learned them by heart and knew how to avoid them. Actually, if Harry was being completely honest, he quite believed that the man with red eyes didn't really like anything at all. He certainly always acted irritable enough.

"What are you doing here? Who _are _you?" one of the Death Eaters asked and pushed past other people to Harry. There was sharp edge in the tone but it was still strangely soft, a woman's voice. "Does the Dark Lord know you are wandering around by yourself?"

"I'm watching," Harry replied and gazed calmly at the approaching Death Eater, "And the man with red eyes knows everything." That seemed to give a pause to the Death Eater, but she was quick to collect herself. Her slight hand grabbed Harry's thin arm with surprising strength and the child flinched at the contact.

"Do you not understand that it's foolish to come here now? These people wouldn't hesitate twice to kill you," the Death Eater hissed, lowering her voice so that only Harry could hear.

Harry pouted a bit, as he glared up at the Death Eater. He was used to death threats, but he still didn't think it was alright for a complete stranger to hand them out to him. Only the man with red eyes—and perhaps Nagini—had the right to do so.

Harry didn't have enough time to voice his opinion, though.

"Unhand the child, Narcissa," a chilly, familiar voice called somewhere from the front of the hall. The Death Eater holding Harry's arm let go immediately, very nearly flinching back. Harry watched fascinated how all the ghosts and nightmares fell to their knees, as the man with red eyes crossed the room gracefully. He halted to stop right before Harry and stared down at him, those unnerving crimson eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

"What are you doing here, brat?" he asked in a dangerously smooth voice that Harry would have probably found frightening if he wasn't so used to it.

In fact, the man with red eyes wasn't nearly as frightening as he thought he was. Whilst he was powerful and cruel beyond belief and, therefore, worth fear and respect, he was still more _real _than most of the other people Harry had met. He didn't hide behind the anonymity of those soulless golden masks. He didn't disguise his thoughts into meaningless words and long speeches like so many of his Death Eaters did. Harry could always trust the man with red eyes to say and do only what he meant, as well as mean what he said or did, no matter how cruel or vicious his intentions were. His actions and words made _sense_ and his every deed had a reason and purpose. The man with red eyes could no way be a ghost or a nightmare, because he was more alive and present than anyone else Harry knew.

Not that Harry knew many people, of course. He rarely was allowed outside the Manor and the people _inside _the Manor were hardly the kind Harry would willingly approach even on a good day. But Harry had the man with red eyes, and he was enough people in one person to keep Harry satisfied for a lifetime.

"I'm watching," Harry repeated the explanation he had given mere minutes earlier to the nosy Death Eater.

"And pray tell, _why _are you watching? Did I not specifically tell you to entertain yourself tonight _somewhere else _than here?"

"You did," Harry nodded his agreement a bit sheepishly, "but someone has to watch when Nagini is away." It was an obvious explanation, of course, and Harry was slight surprised that he had to voice it in the first place.

The man with red eyes seemed to contemplate over the words, before nodded a little in response. "Very well. I trust you to report back to her once she returns."

Harry blinked. "Of course I will."

The man with red eyes scrutinised over his scrawny form, before he slowly pulled out his yew wand and swirled it lazily through his fingers. Harry watched the movement mesmerised, knowing perfectly well what was to come. He could hear the Death Eaters sifting restlessly in the background, but neither of the two paid them any mind.

"Do you know why?" the man with red eyes asked simply, not bothering to amend the question any further than necessary.

"Because I disobeyed," Harry answered straight away and gave a small nod, a tick of his thin neck more than an actual bow. It was an easy question, since disobedience and failures were the only two things the man with red eyes could not tolerate in any circumstances.

"Correct," the man with red eyes said and gave him a small tight smile. Harry was probably the only one present in the room who could see that twisted little smile for what it was: a gesture of approval. He grinned back, his small white teeth flashing in dark and green eyes glowing, and watched how the yew wand halted to point at him.

"My Lord. . ." the nearest Death Eater, the one whose name was Narcissa or something else equally silly, begun uncertainly, but she was silenced by one sharp crimson glance. Harry pondered silently, if he could learn the trick and someday glare like that, too. It could be a handy skill. Harry tested his death glare by scowling at his bare feet; his toes didn't as much as cower.

"There is also another reason," the man with red eyes continued once he had silenced the Death Eater.

Harry thought it over carefully, before replied more hesitantly, "Because I got caught?"

The man with red eyes let his smile momentarily widen, before the expression died a dreadful death on his face and he murmured the curse into an ear-ringing silence, "_Crucio_."

Harry didn't scream. He knew from experience that screaming did nothing but gave him a sore throat later on and made eating and breathing uncomfortable. Instead, he bit his teeth together and squeezed his eyes closed, as the unbearable pain and burn tore through his small body. He didn't register falling to the hard marble floor or how his limbs trembled uncontrollably. Even after the curse was lifted, after a surprisingly short moment, it took Harry a few moments to come back to himself, as the aftershocks slowly faded away. It took even greater effort to climb onto his shaky legs, straighten his back and look defiantly into those cold red eyes that seemed hell-bent at glaring him down again.

Harry could feel a single tear sliding down his cheek and the taste of blood was thick in his mouth. He hoped silently that he hadn't bitten into his tongue too badly. In the middle of their glaring contest, the man with red eyes suddenly reached over, lighting fast, and run his thumb over Harry's cheek, catching the lone tear before it reached Harry's chin. It took another brief moment, before he pocketed his wand and sighed a little.

"Come along then," the man with red eyes said simply, swirled around on his heels and started to march towards the staircase at the other end of the hall.

Harry lingered behind just long enough to allow himself a small victorious smile, before rushed after the quickly distancing figure. He was certain that he had once again passed one of the man's weird little tests, since he was allowed to tag along to whatever meeting was to be hold. Harry didn't really care for these meetings, for they were dull and lasted too long, but he_ did _like it when the man with red eyes was agreeable enough to let him attend. It made Harry feel important and accepted.

Harry skipped through the swarming Death Eaters, caught up with the man with red eyes and grasped the black sleeve tightly into his small hand. The red eyes glanced down at him momentarily, but as no sharp words followed, Harry hid another smile by bowing his head and grinning down at his bare feel. His toes wiggled, waving happily back at him.

…o0o…

It wasn't long before Harry wished he could be invisible again.

He could feel the chilling glares boring into the back of his head all the way up the stairs and through the second floor corridor. When he once or twice dared to glance over his shoulder, all he saw was golden masks and dark, empty eye sockets directed towards him. Those faceless, hollow stares made cold shivers run down Harry's spine, and he held tighter onto the black sleeve in his grasp. The man with red eyes seemed to be either oblivious or indifferent to the stares. Or perhaps he was used to them. Perhaps he even enjoyed those piercing, empty, gazes and the undivided attention. Perhaps it was what he _wanted_. He was weird like that; always wanting silly things like attention, world dominance, or more faceless ghosts kneeling at his feet.

Harry proceeded to tell the man with red eyes exactly how weird he was. He was rewarded with a mild glare and a small shove that send him stumbling through the large double doors into the main dining hall.

Harry had always rather liked this particular hall. It was a huge room with high ceiling and large windows that gave to the west, giving a very nice view over the village of Little Hangleton. Unfortunately, the man with red eyes didn't appreciate that nice view nearly as much as Harry did, and the windows were mostly hidden behind dark purple velvet curtains. The walls were covered with ugly green wallpaper which was slowly peeling off, and the only carpet on the wooden floor was the thick layer of dust. The furniture of the whole wide room consisted in a single long table in the middle and several dozen chairs surrounding it, all of which were mostly designed to look good, rather than to be particularly comfortable.

All in all, the room had a very dramatic look to it, and it made Harry feel like he had stepped into one of those creepy horror stories he had sometimes read when he was allowed something else than dry textbooks and spell tomes. Truthfully, though, the only creepy thing the room had ever seen were the masked ghosts, and Harry didn't think those counted particularly horrifying, since the man with red eyes had them so perfectly under his control. They were quite sad little things actually, in all their bizarre, dark creepiness. _Death Eaters_. Harry wondered, if he could find them in the Monster Book of Monsters if he looked carefully enough.

"Pity that Nagini is not here," Harry mumbled, as he followed the man with red eyes across the room to the other end of the long table. Harry and Nagini sometimes held wizard's duels on that particular table when Nagini was around and they both had time for it. They were very good duels, considering that Harry didn't have his wand yet and that Nagini couldn't even _hold _a wand even if she had one.

"Don't you _dare _to set your foot on the table during this meeting," the man with red eyes hissed at him dangerously, "or I swear you'll spend a week under Cruciatus."

Harry glanced incredulously at the man, "You wouldn't _really_ do that, would you? Besides, you're always so busy, you wouldn't have the time to spend a week just cursing me."

"That's what I have followers for," the man with red eyes replied indifferently, as he sat dramatically down onto the seat just at the end of the table, his cloak billowing around him. Harry observed him for a moment, trying to figure out how serious he was. It was hard to tell, since it was rare occasion when the man looked anything else _but _serious. He was angry, sometimes, but even then he looked seriously angry. In the end, Harry decided not to risk it, and made a mental note to keep his feet far away from the table during the following hours.

Perhaps he could find the man with red eyes in the Monster Book of Monsters, too. Most likely under the label of _Unreasonable and Irritable Monsters_.

"I still wish Nagini was here," Harry grumbled under his breath. He really missed her sometimes when she was away for a long time. She was the only one who dared to talk back at the man with red eyes and not get cursed for it. Harry had never quite figured out why Nagini was given so much leeway when it came to disobedience and insolence, but he suspected that it was because Nagini was secretly the man's mother.

The chairs screeched against the floor, as the Death Eaters settled to their places, and Harry didn't miss how the man with red eyes grimaced at the harsh sound. A scowl appeared onto the man's face, and his cold, calculative, eyes ran over his followers. Harry felt a bit sorry for them and gave a small apologetic smile to the closest one.

"Where do I sit?" Harry asked silently from the man with red eyes, who merely gave him a quick glance in reply, before pointed a finger down to the floor.

"Hmph," Harry huffed. He obediently sat down on the floor, but not without crossing his thin arms over his chest and fixing a pout onto his face right after. Harry knew perfectly well that it would be no challenge at all for the man with red eyes to make another chair with his wand, probably even better one than the ones already in the room, but he still wasn't particularly surprised that the man refused to do it. Doing mean little things like this always made the man feel better of himself and his supposed evilness, so Harry didn't complain about it. It usually kept the man with red eyes in a better mood.

Once Harry was settled as comfortably as he could, he raised his eyes determinately to the Death Eaters and _watched_.

After all, watching was what he was good at.

…o0o…

If there was anything Severus Snape hated more than he hated the Dark Lord, it was being confused.

Confusion was a result of ignorance, and it was ignorance that led down the tragic path of mistakes and failures. Severus didn't consider himself particularly ignorant, instead he often prided himself quite observant and well-informed on important matters. Yet, he had to admit that he couldn't recall another time being so confused, than the moment when he sat on his seat around the large meeting table and observed at the small green-eyed child who sat at the Dark Lord's feet. The only thing that was making his confusion marginally easier to bear, was the fact that everyone else appeared to be equally surprised by the child's sudden appearance at the Dark Lord's manor.

Although, Severus suspected that the said appearance wasn't nearly as sudden as it seemed to be. The way the Dark Lord and this mysterious boy interacted indicated quite clearly that they both were familiar and almost _comfortable _with each other. Seeing the Dark Lord handing out Cruciatus curses for disobedience was hardly anything new, but to see such a young child accept one so calmly and with surprising maturity was unexpected. Severus could only imagine how many times the torture curse must have been cast on to the boy to make him bear it so bravely. And yet, the most disturbing part was the child's elated smile, once the Dark Lord allowed him tag along to the meeting.

This child couldn't be the Dark Lord's son, could he? No, of course not. The whole idea was completely ludicrous. The Dark Lord was hardly paternal material by any means, and it was unlikely that the man hold such thing as an heir in particularly high regard. After all, the man did intend to live forever, and therefore an heir was quite unnecessary. Besides, if the man _had _an heir surely he would be someone more. . . well, simply _more _in every sense of the word.

The green-eyed child was tiny little thing and by the looks of it Severus would guess that he was hardly any older than Draco was—judging by what Severus could remember form the last time he had seen his godson. Although, whilst Draco was a fair and unnecessarily loud child, the green-eyed boy had unruly black hair and he had only spoken a few quiet words directly to the Dark Lord. He was dressed into very ordinary green robes that were a few sizes too big on him and his feet were completely bare. There _was_ something undeniably unnatural about the child, something that made Severus want to avert his eyes and pretend that the boy wasn't even there, but he definitely wasn't special enough to be the Dark Lord's heir. Severus pushed his curiosity forcefully down and returned his focus on the ongoing meeting.

"My _father _has expressed his interest in running for the position of the Minister of Magic," Barty Crouch Jr. was currently saying, disdain gloating his each word. "If that happens, it is likely that he'll force through most of the laws that have so far been hindered by the Ministry's red tape, including those which would allow harsher torture and forced Veritaserum on the suspected Death Eaters."

"This is an expected turn of events, of course," the Dark Lord said simply, "but it is true that the man is becoming a menace."

"Should we dispose of him?" asked Lucius Malfoy's voice further down the table, "In the eyes of public he is the only one trying to bring justice to these unsure times. I fear that his death could affect negatively to your support from neutral parties, My Lord."

Severus was one of the few who noticed how the small child's green eyes narrowed at the words, but only because he had been looking for it. He watched fascinated how the boy first stared thoughtfully at Lucius, before turning his gaze slowly up to the Dark Lord. His green eyes didn't waver, as he stared intently at the most powerful wizard of the century, obviously waiting for the man to notice his stare. The Dark Lord noticed it rather quickly, tried to ignore it, and go on with the meeting, but, amusingly enough, snapped before long.

"What _is it_?"

"What does death taste like?" the child asked and the question rang clear in the silence of the hall. It seemed that all the little action there was left froze, as the echo of the words faded away, and all eyes fastened onto the boy. If the Dark Lord himself was taken back by the question, he didn't express it any visible way.

"Why do you ask?" the Dark Lord inquired.

"Well," the boy begun and glanced at the people gathered around the table, "they're Death _Eaters_, aren't they? And since there's so many of them, I thought that death must taste pretty good!" the boy declared innocently, before seemed to pause to consider something. "Though, they do sound hungry. You should feed them more."

Bellatrix's easily recognisable, delighted cackle broke the silence. One glare from the Dark Lord was enough to silence her.

"I promise that one day you will found out exactly what death tastes like. But today is not the day," the Dark Lord replied simply, and, to the great surprise of his Death Eaters, there was rather obvious amusement in his tone.

"Tomorrow then? For breakfast, perhaps?" the child asked without pause, his eyes looking eagerly up to the Dark Lord.

And as the Dark Lord smirked wickedly down at the boy and replied, "We shall see," Severus was suddenly greatly doubting his earlier conclusion about the child _not _being the Dark Lord's son. Could murderous tendencies be an inherited characteristic? The boy only gave a solemn nod and went back to his staring, observing the Death Eaters with even more keen interest than earlier. Severus was starting to find that stare surprisingly unnerving.

The Dark Lord gazed down at the boy for a moment before looked back to the Death Eaters, his cold red eyes boring into one of them in particular. Barty Crouch twitched restlessly under the stare.

"Perhaps the time has come for the world to find out about your allegiances," the Dark Lord said, "Make it public enough, so that the Ministry can't hush it down."

"My Lord, my position at the Ministry—"

"Do as I said," the Dark Lord spat out sharply, cutting Crouch's sentence short and making most of the Death Eaters flinch slightly, "It's unlikely that the wizarding world will vote for a Minister candidate who can't even keep his own son on his side."

"I will take care of it, My Lord," Crouch nodded and bowed slightly.

A clear, childish voice cut the air of the conference hall again, "Is Mai your first name? No wonder you have never told me your name, if it's silly like that!" The Dark Lord turned slowly to look down at the child and the look in his eyes was absolutely murderous. Apparently the boy recognised the look, as well, since his voice was timid when he added, "Or am I supposed to call you Mr. Lord?"

Severus was certain that there would soon be a new gravestone in the Little Hangleton's graveyard, when the Dark Lord pulled out his wand and pointed it at the child with nerve-wrecking calmness. The child, however, didn't even flinch, but looked exceedingly sheepish instead, while his eyes crossed as he stared at the tip of the wand. The child was either very brave or incredibly foolish. Or maybe a bit of both.

_A Gryffindor_, Severus thought with a mental sneer.

"I didn't—" the boy began, but the Dark Lord waved his wand once and whispered the spell under his breath, too quietly for anyone to catch on what it was. The boy's sentence was cut short with a sharp gasp and his both hands rose to cover his mouth as his eyes widened. The Dark Lord looked distantly satisfied by the reaction, as he laid his wand gently down on the table again. His calm façade didn't shatter once during the display, which was absolutely unheard of. The Dark Lord wasn't exactly known for his self-control or composure when enraged.

"Three days. Now get out of here," the wizard said simply without looking back at the child again. The boy gave the Dark Lord a crushing glare, mustering up a surprising amount of sheer annoyance from his small form and flaring it around like some kind of weird wandless magic, before turned proudly around and started to march towards the doors. There was a certain kind of haughtiness and deep disapproval in the boy's expression that looked greatly out of place on his young face, reminding Severus more of an insulted aristocrat rather than a little boy. As the child walked past, his green eyes met Severus gaze for a brief moment that didn't last as long as a blink of an eye, but that was still enough to shatter the entire world around Severus.

He _remembered _those eyes. He remembered that certain shade of green and that confident stubbornness that resided in it. He remembered how those eyes looked when they laughed and he remembered them when they cried. Just as well he remembered how they glared and how gentle they could be. He remembered those eyes so painfully well that it made breathing difficult and his heart ache. How could he _not _remember?

Then the moment was over, the boy leapt out of the room, and Severus was left alone into the world that would never again be the same.

_Lily._

Those had been Lily's eyes. Severus was sure of it. And now that he had that important piece of puzzle in its right place, everything else fell after it so fast that Severus had to struggle to keep up with it. The boy was Lily's child. The child of Lily and _Potter_. Harry, was his name, if Severus still remembered correctly. Harry Potter. The child of the prophecy. The missing, supposedly dead child. But no, the child wasn't dead and nor was he missing anymore. He was right _here_, alive and well, in the clutches of the Dark Lord.

_Lily's child_ who had suffered Cruciatus right before Severus' eyes and who asked what death tasted like with sincere curiosity.

It had been years since Severus had felt such deep, earth-shattering desperation, as he was enjoying that particular moment. In fact, he had not felt it since that one disastrous night when he had passed the prophecy on to the Dark Lord and condemned Lily to her death. In a sense, that same chaos filled night had also brought Severus into this situation. _He _had condemned this small boy who had Lily's eyes to his fate by whispering the words of the prophecy straight to the Dark Lord and giving him a reason to turn all his destructive cruelty towards the poor boy.

The prophecy. That one prophecy had been Severus' personal curse for far too many years. It was his punishment for all his bad deeds and wrong choices. And now the thrice cursed thing had came around to hit Severus with an emotional _Crucio_ right in his face once more.

This child, this _Harry_, was the one prophesied to defeat the Dark Lord, and here he was, giving all his gentle smiles and silent words to the man he was meant to vanquish, hidden far away from the world he was meant to save. After witnessing all he had seen so far, Severus could only speculate how deep into the child the Dark Lord had sunk his poisonous claws, and if there was any sense in hoping salvation for the boy or if he was too far gone. Truly, it now made a world of sense that Albus had been unable to find the child earlier, seeing how deeply wrapped in the Dark he was, standing in the middle of the maelstrom that was the Dark Lord and his growing empire.

Part of Severus wanted to jump on his feet right away, run through the doors and find the boy, before Apparating them both somewhere safe. Luckily, the more sensible part of him reminded that he wouldn't even make it to the door, not when the Dark Lord sat mere metres away from him. All Severus could do now was to sit through the meeting and hurry his information to the Headmaster afterwards. That was his only chance to salvage anything.

"It appears that Severus is too busy enjoying an epiphany to pay much attention to the progress of this meeting," the familiar cold voice cut into Severus' consciousness, tearing through his thoughts and making him flinch involuntarily. Severus paid extra mind in schooling his expression back to normal and keeping his voice steady as he spoke.

"I apologise, My Lord. I was rather. . . surprised by certain realisations," Severus said carefully and hoped that he didn't sound as uneasy and shaken as he felt. The Dark Lord offered him a twisted smirk.

"Yes, that much is obvious," the man said, while his calculative gaze weighted Severus solemnly. When he spoke again, there was a warning note in his tone, "Remain behind afterwards. I have a few things that need to be addressed."

Severus nodded respectfully, understanding perfectly the hidden meaning in the words. It was an order for Severus to keep his realisation to himself for the time being, and Severus had every intention to respect it. He had to stay alive at least long enough to inform Albus of the new turn of events. This might very well change the course of the whole war and alter the destiny of their world. And this time around, Severus intended to play his part properly. His deeds had doomed Lily, but he still might be able to save her son. That's the least he could do for her.

The rest of the meeting passed in haze for Severus. Nothing the Death Eaters said held much meaning to him, and the importance of all the information was over shadowed by the mystery that was Harry Potter. He waited for the discussion with the Dark Lord partly with uncharacteristic eagerness, but at the same time he was afraid of where the mentioned conversation could lead. If he had no luck at all, the Dark Lord could bound him by a vow not to reveal his knowledge to anyone, or perhaps even _Obliviate _or simply kill him. Severus suspected that no one besides him and the Dark Lord knew the significance of the child and, for all Severus knew, the Dark Lord might intended to keep it that way.

When the Dark Lord finally dismissed his followers, Severus remained where he was, only standing up as the Dark Lord did so.

"You know who the boy is, don't you, Severus?" the Dark Lord asked, when the door closed behind the last of the Death Eaters.

"I have my suspicions, My Lord," Severus replied diplomatically, not wanting to give away too much. With the Dark Lord it was better to keep words soft and tended, because it was likely the man would sooner or later force-feed them right back.

The Dark Lord obviously realised what Severus was doing, since he gave the spy a less-than-amused half smirk before spoke again, "I want you to inform Dumbledore of these _suspicions _of yours."

That certainly took Severus by surprise, though nothing but a slow blink revealed his reaction outwardly.

"My Lord, do you not believe that the knowledge of the boy being alive would encourage Dumbledore to organise some kind of . . . Gryffindorish rescue attempt?" Severus asked carefully.

"It is unlikely. Dumbledore cannot afford risking his already diminishing forces on such a suicide mission," the Dark Lord replied. Severus knew what the Dark Lord said was true, of course, and he still had to violently squish the small portion of himself that wanted to ask what kind of protection the Dark Lord had set up for the boy. Such questions would no doubt make the Dark Lord suspicious and would certainly not help the case of one Harry Potter. Severus hoped, that if he was careful enough and played his cards right, he might eventually get a chance to speak to the boy directly, hopefully even without the Dark Lord's restricting presence.

"I want him to attend Hogwarts, when the time comes," the Dark Lord said finally, revealing the reason for his odd request. Whatever Severus had been expecting or suspecting, it certainly wasn't _this _and without his years of experiences as a double-spy he would be picking up his jaw from the floor at this point. Severus _had _to find out the reason for this seemingly mad decision. Placing the boy right under Dumbledore's nose was very risky thing to do, if the Dark Lord intended to keep the boy's loyalties.

"Hogwarts, My Lord? Surely Dumstrang or—"

"His placement in Hogwarts is essential for my plans. That is all you need to know," the Dark Lord cut in and his razor-sharp glare choked any further questions and objection into Severus' throat.

Severus nodded an acknowledgement. "Do you wish Dumbledore to know about your plans to enrol the boy into Hogwarts?"

"No, not yet. The information that the boy is alive ought to be enough for the old coot for now," the Dark Lord said, "See that it reaches his ears. You're dismissed."

Severus bowed slightly and hurried out, completely missing the small bundle of living being, sitting just outside the dining hall doors.

…o0o…

Harry was invisible again.

He sat on the floor outside the dining room, leaning against the opposite wall and glaring sullenly at the closed doors. He had just found a third thing to add onto his little list of 'the things that the man with red eyes won't tolerate'. Apparently the man had serious issues when it came to his name. Three _days _without tongue? Speak about unreasonable!

Harry stuck one of his tiny fingers into his mouth and felt around the hollow space curiously. It was a _strange _feeling, not having his tongue where it ought to be. His teeth were right there, their sharp edges scratching Harry's finger, soft inner cheeks, the hard roof of his mouth and then absolutely _nothing _else. He tried to make some kind of noise, but all he managed was incomprehensible whining and gurgling. Harry had to hand it to the man, his punishments were getting more creative as time passed. Harry wasn't entirely sure if it was a good or a bad thing.

Harry slumped heavily against the wall and heaved a deep sigh.

Nagini would be disappointed with him once she got back. Harry had promised that he'd keep an eye on things for her, and all he had managed was to get kicked out of a meeting. Nagini was very curious about things that went on in the manor. Unnaturally curious, when remembered that she was a _snake _and the matters of humans usually had very little effect on her daily life. Nagini had once explained that she had to know everything important in order to help 'Tom', whenever help is needed, but when Harry had asked who this Tom person was, she had give a mysterious comment along the lines: "I'm sure you'll find out one day, snakeling". Nagini was incredibly frustrating like that sometimes, with all her mystifying little statements and confusing explanations. Though, from what Harry had gathered, most of the snakes had same kind of attitude; they liked to appear more mysterious than they really were. Being only tails with faces and all that, they liked to have something to boost their ego.

The last of the daylight had escaped the halls of the manor by the time when the doors of the dining hall finally creaked open again. The corridor was completely dark and it was easier for Harry to hide in the open view, as he watched the cloaked figures flood through the doors. Some of them were speaking with hurried, hushed tones and others seemed to only want to get out as soon as possible. None of them noticed Harry even though a few almost stepped on him in their rush. It was a few minutes later that the last of the ghosts appeared through the doors and this was seemed to be even in more of a hurry than all the others. He didn't notice Harry either, didn't even glance down enough to have a chance at noticing him, and Harry shook amusedly his head, as he watched the Death Eater hurrying down the corridor.

They weren't very bright creatures, these Death Eaters, or at least not particularly observant. Harry could remember all those times when the man with red eyes had been mad because of them and mumbled feverishly about 'incompetent fools'. Suddenly those words were so much easier to understand.

Soon after, the man with the red eyes stepped through the doors at more reasonable pace, and Harry's invisibility cracked immediately under the red gaze.

Harry hadn't been lying when he hours prior told the Death Eater that the man with red eyes knew everything. The man did know everything. He also saw everything and Harry's pseudo-invisibility was useless against him and his piercing red glare.

But Harry wasn't blind himself either. He, too, could see small details that other people were oblivious to. Only Harry could see the small tired frown that was carefully hidden behind an angry glare. No one else but Harry would have noticed that the grimace the man shot at him wasn't annoyed _because of_ him, but because the man wished to have a moment of peace, instead of having to deal with Harry. Harry was the only one, who could have interpreted the small sigh that followed correctly as a sound of defeat, instead of counting it as an annoyed huff. And all those small details made Harry feel a little bad for the man.

"I should have come up with this a long while ago," the man with red eyes muttered, "This rare silence from you is a gift from Merlin."

Harry rolled his eyes and stumbled back onto his feet. He stole a bit of time by wiping most of the dust from his clothes, before made a sudden mad dash across the corridor. Before the man with red eyes had enough time to react, Harry had already wrapped his thin arms tightly around the man's midsection and buried his face into his dark robes. The man tensed immediately and Harry could feel the irritated glare boring at the top of his head. Yet, he refused to let go, before he felt reluctant fingers run through his hair once. Harry pulled back enough to beam widely up to the man.

"Yes, you can be a nuisance even when you're forced to be silent. I do believe you have made your point," the man with red eyes said, as he rolled his eyes a little and shoved Harry gently away. Harry only beamed wider and skipped happily after the man, when he started to walk towards his study.

They were half way there, when Harry suddenly remembered. He quickly ran up to the man with red eyes and tugged his sleeve, before pointed excitedly back towards where they had come from. The man with red eyes quirked a curious eyebrow and Harry made a dramatic show of opening a non-existent book and reading it.

"What book do you want?" the man with red eyes asked and the annoyance was back in his tone. The annoyance, however, was easy for Harry to ignore since the man _always _sounded more or less annoyed. Harry raised his hands and made very scary canine teeth out of his index fingers in hopes of making himself look like a monster. It wasn't apparently working very well, since the other eyebrow joined the first, as the man with red eyes stared at the display.

Finally the man gave up with a slight snarl, and Harry could feel a foreign presence invading his mind. He tried to ignore his senses that screamed for him to fight back and block the attack, and just let the man with red eyes rummage through his thoughts uninterrupted. It was few brief seconds later that the presence pulled back.

"You have the strangest ideas," the man with red eyes told Harry dryly, but raised his wand and summoned the desired book with one neat flick. He offered the book to Harry, who accepted it with a satisfied grin. Then the man turned again and continued on his way without bothering to check if Harry followed. It wasn't really necessary to check, since both of them knew perfectly well that Harry _would _follow.

Harry hugged to book tightly to his chest, to stop it from escaping or attacking, and hurried quickly after the man with red eyes. As he slipped into the man's study and took his place on the comfy green armchair in the corner of the room, Harry couldn't help the small happy smile that insisted on appearing onto his face without permission. The man with red eyes _was _often irritable and unreasonable, but he had his human moments every now and then.

Harry petted the Monster book of Monsters gently and set to work with all the determination of a six-year-old.

…o0o…

Meanwhile, far away in the ancient castle of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore remembered for the first time in a very long while what hope felt like.

…o0o…

_- tbc-_

…o0o…


	2. Chapter 1

Huge thanks to everyone who followed, favourited or reviewed this story. I have no words to express how much your warm response meant to me and to the continuation of this story. Thank you!

_Enjoy!_

…o0o…

**I**n **D**eath, **S**tandby

**Chapter I**

_Of All The Little Things_

…o0o…

Sometimes, Harry still recalled fondly those days when the Manor had been surrounded by a large, green, and thriving garden. He could still remember how he had used to run around it, just for childishly simplistic fun, or how he had laid on the grass for hours and counted all the clouds floating above. Those had been nice days; very easy and carefree.

There wasn't much left of the garden anymore.

Where once flowerbeds had bloomed, now resided nothing but bare, burnt ground. Where the green mat of grass had once stretched over everything, laid now a four-inch layer of ash and dust, which would swirl and dance around Harry's ankles when he walked through it. The ash would stick to every inch of his skin and clung to his clothes stubbornly for weeks afterwards.

It could hardly be called _beautiful _anymore, but it was definitely memorable and extraordinary in its own way. And yet, Harry sometimes missed all the lively green.

The simple reason why there was no longer any gardens, was the Dark Lord's rather short and explosive temper. Harry had always known that the man had low tolerance for anything irritating, but so far the most extreme reaction had been set of by simple garden gnomes.

It had been a few weeks before Harry's eight birthday, in the beginning of the July, when he had spotted the first of them. A tiny and ugly creature which had hobbled through the yard and disappeared between the flowerbeds as soon as it had appeared. At first, Harry had thought nothing of it, but then the second had appeared mere days later and then the third on the very same day. Within a week after their first appearance, the population of these strange little beings had exploded, and armies of them marched daily up and down the garden pathways on their aimless journey. That was the point when Harry's curiosity had gotten better of him, and he had snatched up one of them in passing and brought it into the Manor to show it to the man with red eyes.

The man had stared down at the small creature with a strange mix of disdain and resignation on his face, before he had sighed heavily.

"I _knew _I forgot something when I added the wards," he had commented finally and rubbed his eyes despairingly.

"They're gnomes, aren't they?" Harry had asked excitedly.

"Unfortunately. And you said there were more them?"

Dozens! Maybe hundreds!" Harry had exclaimed, "And each day there are more than the day before."

"I do wish you had come to me when you saw the first one. Then it might have been possible to get rid of them. Now it's too late," the man had sighed. "I will fix the wards tonight and inform Nagini that she can eat as many as she can catch."

"But where did they come from?" Harry has asked curiously, as he had poked the wobbly gnome which had been swaggering around the desktop and wielded quills like swords. The gnome had fell down onto its back, hopped up quickly and glared daggers at Harry.

"Nowhere and everywhere. Magical plants and herbs attract them, and once they find the source of the magic, they settle down and breed," the Dark Lord had explained. " They are mostly harmless, until the point where there are simply too _many _of them. Then they are nearly impossible to get rid of."

Since he hadn't sounded too irritated by then, Harry had dared to ask another question.

"Why weren't there any before?"

"This used to be a muggle house," the man had replied, sounding obviously displeased by the fact. "It took a while for the magic to settle and for the magical plants to seed from that magic, but now they apparently have, since the gnomes find this environment to be an appropriate habitat."

The man had glared down at the unfortunate gnome which had been sitting on the desk, looking rather lost and lonely. Probably missing its hundreds of friends and family, Harry had deducted. He had barely finished the thought, when a pale spidery hand had reached out fast as a striking snake, snatched up the creature and wrung its tiny neck with terrible _crunch_. Harry had involuntarily flinched, when the creatures limp body had fallen back onto the desk.

"Anything else?" the Dark Lord had asked and, recognizing the cold tone, Harry had quickly shook his head. He had picked up the dead gnome, and had later buried it into the back of the garden, while hundreds of tiny eyes had stared on. Harry had felt quite sad then, knowing that some of those funeral quests would soon meet their end in the endless pit of Nagini's stomach.

About a week later it had become obvious that it didn't really matter how many gnomes Nagini ate, or how many little necks the Dark Lord snapped, since the number of their uninvited house guests only seemed to increase. It had become impossible to exit or enter the house without at least a few gnomes slipping into the house through the crack of the door. Equally impossible it was to walk through the garden without a million eyes following each step and about three dozen little feet scurrying right behind.

Harry had watched how Nagini had become happier by day as she hunted the creatures around the garden. He had seen how the Dark Lord's patience had slowly worn thin and how the red eyes had grown colder and harder by each gnome found in the house. Those had been interesting times for Harry, and he had found himself ignoring his studies in order to follow the meaningless little lives of the new garden occupants. Harry had picked up a habit of pocking one of the gnomes down with a stick, and had then watched with fascination how at least a dozen others would trip on their fallen companion, until the growing pile of wildly twitching tiny legs and hands had been as high as it was wide.

Then, he had started to find gnomes in his wardrobe in the morning when he dressed, and in his bed when he went to sleep at night. One night he had stayed in the library until it was dark and, on the way back to his room, small bones had crunched beneath his feet, when he couldn't see where he was stepping. Harry had felt awful that night, but had felt a lot less sympathetic in the morning, when he had found his bathroom taken over by a small legion of gnomes.

It had been on the very same day when the Dark Lord had finally snapped after finding two gnomes bathing in their dinner soup. After a few moments of deafening silence and violent curses that followed, the Dark Lord had gotten up and stormed through the halls to the front door in a whirl of dark robes. Harry had run after him as fast as he could, but by the time he had reached the yard, first of the apple trees had already been licked by angry green flames. One elegant wave of the yew wand had sent the flames ravaging through the whole yard like a pack of wild wolves.

The crackle of fire hadn't quite been enough to drown out the muffled, horrified screams that had rung from underneath the flora. Hoards of little gnomes had run from the grass, trying to get away from the burning danger, but another flick of the wand had raised walls of fire in their way, stopping the desperate escape before it could properly begin. The stench of smoke and burning foliage and flesh had been thick in the air and it had brought tears to Harry's eyes.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" he had asked—more like yelled—over the roar of the fire, trying to catch the Dark Lord's attention. The man had barely glanced at him.

"Get into the house. _Now_," had come the short order in return. Harry hadn't had much choice, so he had obeyed in silence and watched from the second floor windows how the fire had completely destroyed their once beautiful garden.

The fires had burned for three days straight. Harry had known that it was no ordinary fire, since the flames had been too hot and violent and had reeked of Dark magic, but even then he had been mildly impressed at how utterly devastating sight had greeted him when the Dark Lord had finally allowed the spell to fade and had given Harry a permission to step out of the house. There had been absolutely _nothing _left. The house had been unharmed but the garden. . . There had been no hint of green anywhere beneath the grey and white ashes; no flower or tree reaching for the sky. But neither had there been any gnomes wobbling around.

Harry had walked unhurriedly through the destruction, taking in the miserable sight. He had crouched and pushed his finger tips into the ash that had still been warm and very fine. The greyness had clung to Harry's fingers even after he had wiped his fingers onto his robes.

He had already been returning to the house, mildly disheartened, when something had unexpectedly crunched loudly beneath his heel. He had dug into the still-warm ash and recovered a small, blackened and split-in-half gnome skull. Those mementos of gnome hard-headedness—which could be found buried into the ash for years afterwards—were the only evidence left that, where a miniature wasteland now stretched, there had once been a garden and a grand kingdom of gnomes.

…o0o…

But it had happened years ago.

On that specific morning, when Harry stood invisible in the yard of the Manor, his toes buried in ash and eyes keenly following the tall, blonde figure striding up the pathway, he didn't spare any longing thoughts to grass, trees, or gnomes. There were very few reasons why this curious stranger would be here in the first place, and all of those reasons involved the Dark Lord one way or another.

However, the Dark Lord was not at home, that much Harry knew for sure. When he first woke up that morning, feeling electrified and bored out of his mind, all that had greeted him into the new day was an empty, hard, silence that rang hollow in the halls of the Manor. Harry was intimately familiar with all kinds of silences by now, seeing how he had grown up amongst them. This silence had been tense and agitated, a waiting one. That kind of silence that had stood unstirred for so long that, for anyone who would listen, it practically screamed to be broken again. Harry himself would have never dared to meddle with a silence like that, and had therefore carefully snuck out of the house and stayed there for good, while waited for the morning to tick away.

He had collected thirteen and half gnome skulls by the time when this strange man had Apparated outside the gates with a swish of an expensive cloak and a haughty tap of a walking stick. Harry was quite sure he had seen the man swaggering around the Manor before, too, since there was something very familiar in his confident gait and ridiculously fair—nearly white—hair, and his overall elegance that bordered on arrogance. A warning voice in the back of his mind had told Harry to stay put and not to draw attention to himself.

Therefore, Harry didn't bother stopping the man on his way. He merely watched how the visitor walked up the pathway and stopped just before the doors to hesitate for a brief moment, before entered the Manor. The double doors slammed closed behind him and Harry let the whole matter slip from his mind with a small shrug.

He crouched into the ash again and started to push the delicate layers from his way. Before long, another gnome skull slipped into his pocket.

On a shelf in his room Harry had around two hundred and eighty skulls, all arranged into neat rows and organized according to size. It had been something of a hobby ever since The Great Gnome Incident. It wasn't much, a bit boring and uninteresting after the fascination with gnomes had dissipated, but it was something to do when time passed slowly.

And now it sure did pass slow, painfully so. It happened sometimes when the Dark Lord was away. Time itself seemed to slow down impossibly, before halting altogether, as if the world had forgotten it was meant to carry on moving. Seconds lasted centuries and Harry grew old and more patient by moment. And always when the Dark Lord returned, time didn't just revise, it seemed to speed along, swirl out of control and dance by too fast to keep up, and Harry would be young and foolish and confused all over again.

Harry's fingers curled around another small skull and he raised it to eye level, observing carefully. He scratched a bit of dirt from an empty eye socket and wiped most of the ash away with his sleeve, before let the depths of his pocket swallow up the tiny bone structure.

A demanding hoot interrupted Harry, before he could return to his search. When he looked up, he was being closely observed by a light brown owl which had landed onto the ash a few feet away. Harry stared back.

"How did I not hear you arrive?" he wondered aloud and looked around searchingly, as if the answer would simply hang somewhere in the air for him to grasp. It didn't, however, and the owl merely hooted in reply. It extended a leg, onto which was attached a thick parchment envelope, and hooted impatiently again.

"No, no, it's not for me!" Harry hurried to explain, "He's not here right now and I don't know when he'll be back."

The owl either didn't care or didn't understand. With a swish of great wings it hopped closer and shoved its leg persistently towards Harry.

"Fine. I'll pass it along," Harry sighed, when it became apparent that the owl would not leave before the letter was delivered. Harry gently extracted the letter and in the same instant the owl was in the air again. Harry let his eyes fall on the letter and the world froze.

On the envelope in green ink read:

_Harry J. Potter_  
_The Riddle Manor_  
_Little Hangleton_

But it couldn't be right, could it now?

Harry never got letters. He didn't even know anyone who would sent him letters! Nagini couldn't exactly write letters without arms and surely the Dark Lord had no need to _write _to Harry, if he wanted to say something. Something was clearly amiss here.

Harry cradled the envelope carefully in his hands and read the words again. They didn't change, but stood stubbornly there on the parchment: clear, unmistakable and suspicious. Only thing that seemed slightly out of place was the name Potter_, _since Harry had never known that he actually _had _a surname. But then again, the letter was clearly addressed 'The Riddle Manor, Little Hangleton' and the only Harry living there was him, so it didn't exactly leave much room for interpretation. Well, assuming, of course, that there was no Harries hidden somewhere in the dark depths of the dungeons where Harry himself was not allowed to wander. Somehow, it didn't seem likely that those Harries would be receiving any mail at all.

As thoughts, assumptions and wild deductions started to mix into a chaotic concoction in Harry's mind, only one thought rang clear through it all; he _needed _to find the Dark Lord. Preferably sooner than later. Harry swirled on his heels and sprinted to the front doors, tore them open and sprung inside the entry hall, only to slam painfully against another person that had just been trying to exit through the same door.

Harry stumbled backwards, fell on his behind and hit his head against the door frame, so that galaxies danced before his eyes for several seconds. Sharp pain spread to the back of his head, but he ignored it determinedly, as he sprang back onto his feet. He looked up, blinking tears of agony from his eyes and spoke:

"Thank Merlin you're here! This stupid owl—"

The sentence withered on Harry's lips when his brain registered that it was not, in fact, the one and only Dark Lord he was addressing, but the blonde stranger who had arrived earlier and whose presence Harry had entirely forgotten by now.

"Oh," Harry commented smartly and nodded a little in greeting. The gesture made colourful lights explode in his vision. "Hey, didn't realise you were still here."

Something akin to surprise and mild annoyance had danced on the stranger's angular face, but under Harry's expectant stare the expression quickly transformed into a more neutral one. A single light eyebrow quirked up and thin lips set into tight line.

"I assume that he has not returned then?" Harry asked, before the blond man could manage a sound.

A muscle ticked at the man's jaw but he replied anyway, stiffly, "If you speak of the Dark Lord, then the answer is no. To my knowledge he is not present at the moment."

Harry frowned. "Did you check the dungeons?"

"Of course I did," the man bit out with clear irritation now.

Harry offered a small sheepish smile of consolation. "Yes, of course. Sorry I asked. It's just, well, usually he is back by nine o'clock when he's away all night. He can't really function without his morning tea, so. . ." Harry ended the sentence with a little shrug.

As long as Harry could remember it had been a habit of the Dark Lord's; drinking tea precisely at nine o'clock every morning. Harry would always join him, never talk much, but always wait and listen in case the man felt like sharing his daily plans with him. There was something strange about tea, something that made the man behind the façade of the Dark Lord more relaxed and pleasant to be around. Those moments were Harry's favourites. The calm peacefulness—that hid poorly the restlessness that the Dark Lord always emitted—made Harry happy on some very simple and human level that he couldn't quite explain.

"He has been away all night?" the man asked with a small frown creasing his brow. Harry understood, since he sometimes worried about the Dark Lord, too. Especially when he was away for long times or left suddenly without leaving any explanations behind. Harry suddenly felt much more sympathetic towards this strange intruder in his home.

"Yes, he often is," Harry nodded, relieved that the building irritation in the air had dissipated slightly. "He prefers to work at night, I think."

"Hm," the man hummed vaguely, not paying much attention to what Harry was saying. He looked troubled, so Harry let him think in peace. He watched the man curiously and noted that this close he looked older. Not exactly _old, _but stretched and tired the way old people often seem to be. The resemblance was all in his eyes, though and hidden in the few lines crossing his face. His overall appearance spoke of nothing but ageless elegance and self-control. A carefully worn mask, Harry decided, unsurprised. It was a common phenomenon around here, these masks and masks beneath masks.

The silence in the entry hall stretched, but Harry didn't mind. He was too busy wondering what he was supposed to say next. He had never spent much time around people other than the Dark Lord. Therefore, socialising with them was an art that he had never really had the need to master. He wished Nagini was here to help him, to offer some guidance and comfort, but she had been gone this morning, too. No, Harry would have to handle this alone.

"Um, I. . . Would you like some tea?" he asked finally, inwardly cringing at how stupidly hesitant he sounded. "I mean, erm, if you want to wait for him? It would probably be best if we had a pot of tea ready for when he comes."

The man stared at Harry like he had spoken in a foreign language, but before Harry could ask again—just in case he _had _accidentally slipped to parseltongue—the man nodded suddenly, stiffly and a reluctantly, but accepting nonetheless.

"Yes, tea would suffice," he said and Harry offered him a delighted grin. Clearly he was doing something right here. He skipped over to the man and snatched his sleeve, before started to drag him towards the staircase.

"We should probably wait in his study," Harry told easily. "He doesn't really like it when people wander around the Manor, especially when he's not here." When he looked up, he could see how the blond man was staring offended at the spot where Harry had a firm hold on his person. Harry let go quickly.

"Uh, sorry," he mumbled and smiled a bit sheepishly.

"It is quite alright," the man replied awkwardly, all the while sounding like it's anything but alright. Harry didn't dare to say anything more, so he merely lead the man to the study, before calling for a house elf.

"A pot of tea, please. Strong tea," Harry told the miserable sniffling creature and smiled kindly. "And three cups as well. Oh! And biscuits, lots of them."

The elf bowed low and left with a soft _pop_.

"I'm not really allowed to eat biscuits," Harry explained to his guest. "I always eat too many and get sick. So, um, would it be okay if I said I asked them for you?"

The man was staring at Harry again, with a peculiar expression on his face.

"If it's not too much trouble?" Harry added quickly.

"Biscuits? Right, fine," the man sounded like he was trying to solve a puzzle, confused, mildly frustrated, and not really getting anywhere with it. Then he cleared his throat loudly and visibly gathered himself. "I am Lucius Malfoy."

"Oh, right! I'm Harry. Hi!" Harry grinned at the man again and politely waved a hand towards the armchair in the corner, the one Harry usually sat on himself. The stranger, Lucius Malfoy—what a strange name—sat down, whilst Harry rounded the desk and easily hopped to sit on the chair behind it. It was usually the Dark Lord's seat, but Harry didn't think the man would mind, since he wasn't even here. Mr. Malfoy appeared to disagree, since he glanced at Harry like had just done something entirely insane, before shook his head and schooled his expression again. The calculative look that then strayed onto his face unnerved Harry a little, but he didn't let it show.

"So, _Harry,_ " this Lucius Malfoy began, "how old are you?"

Well, that wasn't exactly what Harry had been expecting.

"Um, ten? Well, almost eleven," he replied, confused, and out of politeness asked, "How old are you, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Well, that hardly matters", the man scoffed back dryly, which Harry thought was a little impolite. After all, _Harry _had bothered to answer.

"Oh," Harry mumbled. It was all so odd, these rules people set of what wasn't acceptable and what was. . . Then he realised that instead of a painful trial, he could take this as an opportunity. "Though, I bet you're old," he commented easily.

Mr. Malfoy stared at Harry with silent indignant disbelief.

"And probably wise, too," Harry hurried to continue, before the guest could take it the wrong way. "Know all kinds of things, don't you?"

Mr. Malfoy opened his mouth, but closed it before any words were formed. After awhile he managed, "Well, I like to think I do."

Harry grinned, widely. "Brilliant! I'm sure you know how letters work then!"

"Letters?" Mr. Malfoy repeated and his eyes fell onto the envelope that was still clutched in Harry's hands. Understanding flashed over his face, shadowed by confusion, and he nodded. "I have received my fair share of them and sent just as many."

The house elf reappeared with a large ceramic pot and a tray of cups and a biscuit bowl. Her thin arms shook, when she placed the tray carefully onto the desk and poured tea into two of the cups. She seemed even more nervous than usually. The china cups clattered against each other, and the pot seemed too heavy for her to hold up, as her whole body trembled with the effort. But she managed in the end, before looked around and Harry nodded at her. With a quick bow and a silent squeak, the elf disappeared again.

Mr. Malfoy pulled out a wand from the end of his walking stick, elegantly and easily—a well practised gesture, clearly—and levitated one tea cup over to himself. Harry was too distracted to think about tea, but grabbed a biscuit which he proceeded to munch down with two large bites. It was as good as he remembered, these chocolate chips were his favourite. The Dark Lord would have a fit when he found out, but right now Harry didn't care, he had more important matters on his mind.

"Well?" Harry prompted, impatiently, and waved the envelope in the air. "What do I do with it?"

Mr. Malfoy huffed a little, more amused than irritated. "It would be a good start to open it."

Harry looked down at the envelope again and run his fingertips over the yellowish parchment. It felt smooth to the touch. He turned the letter over and stared at the red signet which was marked by a lion, a raven, a snake and a badger. Harry poked the animals with his index finger, but they didn't react.

"How do I do that?" he asked, looking up again. Mr. Malfoy was observing Harry carefully, like trying to decide what to make out of him. "Do I need a spell? Or some sort of a ritual?" Harry continued, when the man didn't immediately answer.

"That won't be necessary," Mr. Malfoy replied. "I would use a knife myself, but if you wish, you may simply tear it open."

Harry looked down at the letter and set to work, wondering where he was supposed to rip.

"Perhaps you could answer a few questions of mine, _Harry_?" Mr. Malfoy's voice cut through Harry's concentration.

Harry wasn't sure what it was, but something about the way Mr. Malfoy pronounced his name made Harry feel slightly angry. Like there was something wrong with the name, like it wasn't good enough, or somehow unsatisfying. Harry looked up long enough to frown at the man, before returned to the task at hand.

"I might," Harry replied and gripped carefully one corner of the envelope.

"I assume, you live here with the Dark Lord?" the man asked with an almost casual tone which made Harry look up from his task again. The tone sit poorly with the general appearance of the man, and especially it clashed with the intent look on his face.

"Yes," Harry replied curtly. He gripped he envelope tighter and tore it carefully open along the edge. Then he paused for a while and waited, but as nothing happened and he let out a small relieved sigh, before peered into the envelope.

"For how long?" Mr. Malfoy's voice cut the silence of the study again.

"Oh, as long as I can remember," Harry replied carelessly, as he pulled out a few neatly folded sheets of parchment. "He's just always been around. And Nagini, too. Are you trying to interrogate me? I should know that he has never told me anything really important," Harry told and looked up, interested now. "Are you a spy? Is that why you're asking? How did you get through the wards, if you're one of _them_?"

Mr. Malfoy stared at him indignantly with his pale eyes and a corner of his mouth ticks. "My loyalties lie _firmly _with the Dark Lord."

"Oh," Harry allowed a smile, "That's very nice of you."

Harry gently folded open the two-piece letter he was holding and read the first few lines. Then he started over and read the lines again. And for a third time. The words stubbornly remained the same and the green ink glared at Harry smugly and obnoxiously from the parchment. Slowly, Harry let his hands lower and looked over the edge of the letter at Mr. Malfoy who was sipping his tea.

"He's sending me off to a _school_!" Harry exclaimed, disbelief raising his voice by an octave. He shook the letter viciously in the air, as if trying to force the words off the paper. "I can't believe this!"

Mr. Malfoy merely quirked an eyebrow at the display and hummed thoughtfully. "Yes, I thought it might be your Hogwarts letter. Congratulations are probably in order."

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, _the letter proclaimed, and spoke as if it were a great honour to have been chosen as a student. The familiar name didn't make Harry feel any better and he didn't feel particularly honoured, either.

"Congratulations? When he's trying to get rid of me?" Harry asked loudly. The words came out oddly shaken. There was a thick lump forming in his throat, something that tasted uncomfortably like fear and despair. The day had come then, as he had always suspected it would one day. The Dark Lord had got enough of him and had decided to send him away for good. Harry clutched the letter and swallowed his bitter tears, unwilling to let them escape in front of a stranger.

Leave the Manor? Leave Nagini and the Dark Lord and go by himself? How was he supposed to do that? How could he _live_ like that? And most of all why should he? Harry tried to understand, tried to comprehend the reasons and consequences, but all rationality was overshadowed by all-consuming _fear_ that rose from somewhere within and chilled at his bones and heart.

"I don't like this at all," Harry mumbled and glared at the envelope, irritably.

"Neither do I. What is the meaning of _this_?" a familiar, angry, voice asked nearby and Harry's head snapped up and a small relieved smile flashed across his face. The Dark Lord stood there by the door and looked as imposing as ever, mildly ragged perhaps and not quite as neatly attired as usually, but otherwise he seemed to be fine. There was a slightly irritated look on his face, as he took in the scene before him and the red eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

Mr. Malfoy stood up quickly in one smooth motion and bowed low. "My lord."

Before he could reply to the question the Dark Lord had issued, however, Harry hopped down from his chair, marched over to the Dark Lord and started to push him towards the desk and the chair behind it.

"I got this letter! One that. . . well, I think you know already. Hogwarts, it said," Harry told, while he pushed the Dark Lord down onto the chair and poured the man a generous cup of tea which then helpfully shoved into his hands. The Dark Lord glanced down at his cup and frowned a little, but the lack of vocal protests told Harry that, in his own quirky way, the man appreciated the gesture. Harry suppressed a little smile.

Harry glanced at Mr. Malfoy. "I don't really know what _he_ is doing here, but he came sometime ago looking for you and I offered him tea. And biscuits. Just to be polite."

"Is that so?" the Dark Lord replied vaguely and tasted the tea Harry had offered him. "Lucius?"

"I am afraid I come here as a bearer of bad news, my lord," Mr. Malfoy responded smoothly, a perfectly honed apologetic expression taking over his face. A small and horrifyingly sardonic smirk flashed across the Dark Lord's face quick as lightning.

"Don't you ever," he mumbled more to himself than to anyone else. His expression was grave and threatening again when he asked, "What is it then?"

"An urgent and rather alarming message was delivered to my wife early this morning. It's was about her sister, my lord," Mr. Malfoy began. "Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange were captured by the aurors last night. Only hours later Rabastan ran straight into an ambush, when he tried to investigate what had happened, after the two failed to return."

The Dark Lord didn't reply immediately, merely sat there with a expressionless, frozen, mask on his face. He slowly set down the tea cup he was holding and spoke with a level voice, "Where?"

Mr. Malfoy seemed to flinch under the question, as if it was exactly the one thing he had hoped the Dark Lord would not ask. "A muggle village, a few hundred miles to north from London. It appears that Bellatix had somewhere gained information that her muggle-loving sister, Andromeda Tonks, I believe her name now is, would be there that evening, visiting relatives of her mudblood husband. Her thirst for revenge appears to have overridden what little sanity she has left," Mr. Malfoy explained reluctantly.

Fury thinned the Dark Lord's lips into a disapproving line. He rose slowly and stepped to the window, rigid and threatening, like only he could be. Harry momentarily wondered if he should leave now, while the fragile façade of calm still prevailed. He didn't.

"Their obsessive and _reckless_," the Dark Lord spat out the word like it had burned on his tongue for quite a while now, "behaviour has become a palpable risk. A risk they clearly failed to acknowledge. There is nothing we can do for them now. After acquiring such high-class captives, the Ministry will make sure that the security levels of Azkaban are appropriately raised. We will wait and hope there is enough left of them when the time is right," the Dark Lord said, cold and aloof. In that particular moment he obviously didn't care one way or another what would come to his followers.

Mr. Malfoy cleared his throat slightly and apparently felt the need to say something in his—and their—defence. "According to Narcissa, it is likely that the Order had placed surveillance on Mrs. Tonks in case of an attack. Most of the Black properties seem to have passed onto her after the imprisonment of Sirius Black and the fugitive status given to Bellatrix. Her. . . _value_. . . in the eyes of the Order has been faced by a most unexpected increase," Mr. Malfoy told. "At this very moment Narcissa is at the Ministry, gathering any possible information on what had happened and what will follow."

The Dark Lord seemed to quickly think it over, eyes narrowing and his spidery hand lazily caressing the smooth wood of his wand. It was a tick that Harry knew the Dark Lord didn't even realise he possessed. Clearly he was the only one with the knowledge on the Dark Lord's strange mannerism, since Mr. Malfoy seemed to grow more restless as the silence stretched, visibly expecting a violent outburst. Harry had to bite his tongue in order not to intervene and say something to ease the tension. He knew that right now his input was not needed or wanted.

"Good," the Dark Lord finally judged and nodded barely notably. "I trust that Narcissa has enough control over herself to maintain a suitable level of detachment. There can be no questions about her loyalties in this war, not this soon after Bellatrix's imprisonment." The Dark Lord raised a dark eyebrow significantly, indicating that it was an order rather than a mere statement.

Mr. Malfoy executed a strange half bow and looked immensely relieved beneath the stiff mask of indifference. Harry could sympathise with him. He, too, had been waiting for some kind of a reaction, a tantrum or _anything _at all to express the displeasure the Dark Lord must have been feeling. Must have been the quick mouthful of tea that made him so calm and rational.

Harry took advantage of the momentarily serene atmosphere and reminded, "So, this letter I got. . ."

Red eyes fell on him heavy and unsympathetic.

"I won't go, you know. To Hogwarts," Harry continued when he received no vocal response.

The Dark Lord didn't let it show if he had even heard, when turned towards Mr. Malfoy again.

"Leave," he ordered simply, "And inform Narcissa that I expect her to report directly to me with all the necessary information."

"Very well, my lord," Mr. Malfoy agreed, almost pleasantly now that the tension in the room had mostly dissipated. He bowed again and walked briskly to the door.

"Oh, and Lucius?" the Dark Lord called out, before the blonde man managed to execute his escape. "You have a son, don't you?"

Harry watched how Mr. Malfoy stiffened and froze motionless where he stood. Startled wariness entered his eyes, as he turned back to the Dark Lord, a nervous muscle ticking at his jaw. How curious, Harry observed, that this was the first time the man showed actual alarm, despite the fact that he had previously been mere seconds away from being brutally cursed by the Dark Lord.

"Yes, my lord," he replied shortly and the careful question rang loud in the words.

"He will be entering Hogwarts this year, won't he?"

"He. . . Yes, he will."

"Excellent," the Dark Lord nodded satisfied, whilst glanced at Harry from the corner of his eye; a look that bode no well to Harry's well-being. "When you go to Diagon Alley for his school gear, take him with you." The Dark Lord waved an uninterested hand towards Harry.

"Excuse me?" slipped from Mr. Malfoy, simultaneously with Harry's loud screech of, "No way!". The Dark Lord gave them both an unimpressed look, which had Mr. Malfoy quickly grooming his disbelieving look into more neutral one, but did very little to Harry's defiant stare.

"I won't got with _him_!" Harry exclaimed and crossed his arms across his chest. "I mean, how do you know you can trust him? What if he kidnaps me? Or, or murders me? What will you do then?"

"Besides rejoice, you mean?" the Dark Lord crumbled under his breath, before turned to Mr. Malfoy again. His expression was grim when he spoke.

"I will make this exceptionally clear, Lucius. Should Harry end up kidnapped, murdered or otherwise harmed in your presence, I will hold you personally responsible. As a punishment I will flay your wife, present your son as a gift to Fenrir Greyback and torture you into a mindless, drooling mess before sending you straight to the Auror Department with a Dark Mark branded across your face. I am certain they will grant you the Kiss out of the goodness of their hearts, even though you will be incapable of confessing anything incriminating by then," the Dark Lord spoke in calm even tone, leaving no doubt that he meant every word. "Do I make myself clear?"

For a moment it looked like Malfoy is already incapable of saying anything, without the Dark Lord having to go through with any of his threats. He floundered for a moment before forced out a curt, "Immensely, my lord."

"Excellent. You may go now," the Dark Lord replied, not even bothering to look how Mr. Malfoy bowed briefly and slipped out of the room, letting the door close behind him silently. Harry judged it was a wise move on Mr. Malfoy's part to escape before the Dark Lord could spring more unexpected and insane demands on him. Although, it also meant that Harry was now left alone to fend off the Dark Lord's mad ideas.

The Dark Lord turned to stare at Harry, his serious expression unwavering. "Satisfied?"

There was a subtle warning hidden in the red eyes, impossible for Harry to ignore. He bit down to his lower lip, chewed for a moment and weighted his options. There weren't many. Harry pursed his lips and tapped his foot to express his displeasure.

"No. I thought I could go with you when I finally get to visit Diagon Alley."

The Dark Lord didn't dignify the words with a proper reply, but instead smothered Harry with a disbelieving glare. Disappointment and defeat stung painfully in Harry's heart, but he knew he was fighting a lost battle. The Dark Lord could out-stubborn him any day. Although, it didn't mean that Harry couldn't try.

"Besides, it won't even be necessary. I won't be attending Hogwarts, anyway, so why would I need _school gear_?" Harry asked and let a slight grimace onto his face at the last words. "This is stupid! I could just stay here and read and learn that way and—"

"Your attendance is essential," the Dark Lord interrupted, "And not negotiable."

"But I—"

One look from the Dark Lord choked the feeble protest Harry had tried to muster up. There was no outright anger or irritation in his expression, no malice that he sometimes displayed so openly. The Dark Lord remained coldly composed, uncaring and somehow frozen. And that was what worried Harry. It almost felt like he was already being cast away, slowly pushed aside with simple indifference. Indifference, yes. It was a mighty weapon in the hands of the Dark Lord and he wielded it with horrifying efficiency. A weapon Harry had absolutely no way to fight against, no way to defend himself.

Harry nodded once. A gesture of compliance that burned his eyes bitterly.

The Dark Lord turned away, unmoved but accepting.

"Now leave," he said simply. And Harry left.

But not before he dug deep into his pockets, summoned a great handful of dirty and grimy gnome skulls which he then proceeded to pour into the still-waiting pot of tea. The expression of absolute fuming fury rushed onto the Dark Lord's face faster than Harry's eyes could follow, but Harry didn't stay to watch. He was running halfway down the corridor by the time the disbelieving howl of rage reached his ears. And all he could do was marvel at his own daring and stupidity, as a purple spell zoomed past him, just inched from his head, when he dodged behind the corner.

Somehow, Harry felt suddenly a lot better.

…o0o…

The atmosphere at the Manor reminded tense for days afterwards.

The Dark Lord stalked the halls of the Manor wild, fierce, and deathly, whilst Harry faded in the deepest of lurking darkness and glowered at everything and nothing. It was a silent war; no word passing, no look exchanged. Fire and shadow clashed, both viciously determined, but neither doing any actual damage to the other. The house elves grew twitchy as the time passed and stayed mostly out of sight. The Death Eaters who dropped by were tense and clearly nervous, bowing unusually low before their master and avoiding Harry's glowing green gaze more carefully than ever before.

Harry knew it was mostly a sever case of misunderstanding that was causing the current rift. Harry didn't know why it was so important that he left for Hogwarts and the Dark Lord couldn't understand why Harry was so vehemently against the idea. On one hand, Harry would have been more than willing to discuss the issue, just to make the tension between them dissipate some, but on the other hand, he knew that the Dark Lord would be deaf to anything Harry had to say. Things had been that way as long as Harry could recall.

And just as always, Harry was the first to give in.

Six days after the day the letter had arrived, Harry sought out the Dark Lord and found the man in the potion lab, where he was working on something that seemed yellowish slime and smelled long dead and rotten. Harry didn't dare to approach directly, not when there was a neat selection of sharp instruments set on the table, so he drifted slowly and silently closer and stopped by the door to observe cautiously. The Dark Lord didn't notice him or simply ignored him.

Harry let the silence stand for a while, screaming and ear-splitting. It felt good somehow. Almost like Harry had brought it with him and was in charge of it, wielding all of its crushing power against the Dark Lord. The momentary illusion of victory passed as quick as it had appeared—this was _the_ _Dark Lord _he was talking about here—and suddenly Harry couldn't stand the silence a second longer.

"I—I'm sorry," Harry bit out reluctantly, then quickly added, "Not sorry that I argued, but sorry that I didn't listen it through." Then the only thing he could do was wait and see how things would fall out.

The Dark Lord didn't react at first, but scrutinized closely the yellowish pile slime of that was slowly turning greener. Then the man straightened his back and turned slowly, almost predatorily, towards Harry and the crimson eyes drilled deep into Harry's very soul and _judged_.

"There are times when I wonder what I did wrong," the man said and something small and important died a little within Harry's chest. He didn't let it show on his face, just bit his teeth together and did what little he could; bore it.

He had known this would happen. Disappointment, regret. . .all the little things that the Dark Lord wielded against Harry almost as efficiently as he wielded indifference. Every time it was like a cold knife, drawing deep into Harry and pairing out all the negative aspects of him, all the faults and flaws the Dark Lord disliked. It was frightfully effective. Each time it left Harry frightened and ashamed of whatever he had done and very nearly desperate to improve. It was uncomfortable but necessary, Harry knew.

"I have given you so much and tried so hard," the Dark Lord continued almost sorrowfully and stepped closer. Harry withdrew a little, not visibly, since the man would not have liked that, but something within him closed protectively. When the Dark Lord spoke, it was soft as silk and sharp as a cutting curse at the same time. "This is the only thing I ask of you, Harry. The only thing."

"You want me to leave and go to Hogwarts," Harry mumbled, wanting to provide something into this conversation that was quickly turning into a monologue.

"_Exactly_. It should be easy enough, even enjoyable for you once you get used to the idea. But what do you do, hm? You argue. You _refuse _out right the change I have presented you with," the Dark Lord half-whispered and Harry couldn't remember the last time he was so terrified of mere words. He wasn't even sure where the fear came from or what had merited it. It just _was_.

By now, the electric smell of angry magic, which surrounded the Dark Lord like an aura, had mixed with the stench of death and rot and it all poured in when Harry heaved a deep breath to steady himself.

He confessed weakly, "I'd like to stay with _you_."

He let eyes fall, so that the Dark Lord could not see his expression. The man didn't particularly like weakness.

The Dark Lord sighed, ever so slightly. "I am not sending you away," he sounded troubled when he spoke and Harry glanced up quickly. "It is vital that you understand that. I am sending you only because I need you at Hogwarts more than I need you here." The Dark Lord walked over to Harry and Harry made a conscious effort to stay put. The Dark Lord crouched down enough, so that he could grasp Harry's chin and stare down any remaining stubbornness with his fiery crimson eyes.

"But why?" Harry asked.

"I need you to be my eyes, because beyond those walls I am blind," the Dark Lord told. "I know you will not disappoint me. You are one of the very few people I can completely place my trust upon." The Dark Lord sounded solemn, his expression was grave, nearly grim. A pale hand reached out, hesitated, and settled cautiously onto Harry's thin shoulder. He looked at Harry steadily and the whole world swirled wildly around that one fleeting second of a time.

Harry didn't believe a word of it. He knew the man far to well to fall into one of his artfully woven webs. This was exactly how the Dark Lord lured his prey to comply, how he made people agree and how he danced them into obedience with nothing but words. One pretty word here, another lie there, and all wrapped in feigned respect or approval, and people fell at the Dark Lord's feet like the he had just given them the world on a golden platter. Harry knew this. _Oh how he knew it. _Yet, he agreed, because it was a beautiful thought, this trust he had been given. His heart swelled and warmed, before slowly died a little.

Harry was weak like that. Especially when the weakness felt almost like strength, when the Dark Lord offered him a narrow, tight-lipped, smile in return.

…o0o…

_- tbc -_

…o0o…


	3. Chapter 2

I never thought it possible, but I actually wrote this chapter in less than seven days. It's mostly thanks you all you wonderful readers who have offered your support with favs, alerts and reviews. You're doing wonders to my writing motivation.

This chapter turned out a bit longer and slightly darker than it was supposed to. I can only hope it's not too heavy a read and doesn't kill everyone trying to wade through it. It did kill me and I only wrote it! I actually deleted about four complete scenes, because the length of the chapter was getting out of hand. I have no idea where all these words are coming from.

I'm starting to think that a lighter and easier side project would not be a bad idea at all. Something short and simple to fend of writers block, hm. . .

Anyway, enjoy and don't forget to toss me a review!

…o0o…

**I**n **D**eath, **S**tandby

**Chapter II**

_A Brethren of Two_

…o0o…

On the morning of July 31st, the Dark Lord passed Harry a silver pocket watch over the breakfast table.

It was a beautiful device, goblin-made and clearly expensive. It had five hands which marked hours, minutes and seconds, as well as days and full moons of each month. The silver cover held engraved runes which Harry didn't understand, but which he decided to study more closely later on when he had time. The clock emitted a soft and lulling ticking noise which Harry could almost _feel _against the palm of his hand.

"Thank you. It's very nice," Harry told the Dark Lord and looked over the table at the man. The Dark Lord didn't look up from _the Daily Prophet _he was skimming over with a bored look on his face, just nodded shortly to express that he had heard. "Is this a birthday present?" Harry continued out of curiosity, turning the watch in his hands and admiring the flawless metal work.

The Dark Lord choked on his tea, coughed a few times and grimaced at Harry a little. "Don't be ridiculous. Of course it isn't! It's a portkey for emergency situations. Speak to it in parseltongue and it will activate and bring you back to the Manor from almost anywhere," the Dark Lord told, clearly irritated that Harry had thought the gift to be something as sentimental as a birthday present.

Harry didn't mind, but neither did he change his mind about it. The watch was given to him on his birthday and therefore it _was _a birthday present, no matter what the Dark Lord thought. It was also the very first birthday present Harry had ever received, and it made him feel surprisingly happy. He had never owned anything as fancy as this and, since it had been the Dark Lord who gave it to him, it felt all that more significant. Harry curled his fingers tightly around the cool metal surface and pressed it against his heart; silent ticking and steady beating in flawless harmony.

"Keep it close and keep it hidden _at all times_," the Dark Lord continued, giving Harry a stern look over the table. "And you will use it if an alarming situation arises. No excuses. Should anyone try to take it from you, you will use it _immediately_, no matter what the situation is."

Harry nodded obediently and slipped the watch into the safety of his robe pocket. It sounded useful, this emergency portkey, but one question danced in the front of his mind, "Why are you giving this to me now? I thought it would be handy at Hogwarts when I'm far away and. . ." Harry didn't manage to finish with the question when the answer already dawned to him.

He sighed. "I'll be going to Diagon Alley today, won't I?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Soon."

"How soon is soon?"

Harry received a sharp glare, but he refused to give up.

"With the Malfoys?"

"That was agreed upon."

"Hmph. I didn't particularly like Mr. Malfoy," Harry confessed and chewed a croissant thoughtfully. "He's so. . . so. . . Well, I don't think there's anything _real _about him. His expressions are all fake, like masks he pulls on when he needs one, and he weighs his words so carefully that it's impossible to know what he's thinking. He probably even dyes his hair!"

The Dark Lord was giving Harry a strange look across the table, mouth set in thin line and eyebrows drawn together in thought. "What _do _you believe he was thinking?"

Harry blinked. "I, um, I don't know. But I. . . Well, I think he was scared. Of you, of course, not me. But it doesn't make much sense, does it? Since he's your follower and everything. It was probably respect. And he was confused by me and who I was. He asked a few weird questions and tried to snoop," Harry told as thought back to his short meeting with Mr. Malfoy. "Oh, but don't worry! I didn't tell him anything and he said that. . . how did it go. . . that 'his loyalty lays firmly with the Dark Lord'."

"And you believed him?" the Dark Lord asked, an eyebrow quirking mockingly.

"He lied?"

"Not necessarily. But as you said, he is afraid and always weighs his words carefully," the Dark Lord reminded. "It's best if you do not to trust him. Or better yet, trust no one. It will solve many problems for you."

"I trust you," Harry replied immediately, without thinking.

The Dark Lord's smile was all teeth. "And that, child, is your first mistake."

Harry lowered his gaze to his breakfast and, in the privacy of his own mind, disagreed.

…o0o…

Diagon Alley was. . . not what Harry had expected.

It was a narrow, cobbled, street, twisting and turning out of sight and surrounded by buildings stacked closely together. There were wand and robe shops side by side with shops that sold cauldrons, telescopes and strange instruments Harry was not familiar with. Apothecaries, books shops and sweet and joke shops all begged for his attention. The small free spaces between the shops were taken over by makeshift stalls; tabletops bending under the weigh of the items piled on them. Harry was quickly convinced that _anything _could be bought here, if one knew where to look. It was wonderful and one of the most fascinating places Harry had ever seen, and yet, it _wasn't_.

Squeezed between an apothecary and a second-hand robe shop was a smoking ruin of something, utterly wrecked and about to crumple. A bit further down the alley a reconstruction work was halfway done, workers with grim expressions almost reluctantly patching together a collapsed shingle roof. The whole alley had a tired look to it; walls and roofs slightly askew and wearily leaning one way or another. Everything looked uncared for, worn out and shaken.

The impression was supported by the people hurrying up and down the street.

Every witch and wizard hid under dark, heavy, robes, their faces covered with raised hoods. They hurried onwards, steps long and focused, eyes forward and unwavering. They were _scared_, Harry realized with astonishment. And not just scared, but horrified out of their silly little minds. They huddled together in large groups, families and friends drawn into herds for what little protection they could offer each other. They were here because they had to, running their business with feverish urgency just to get away as soon as possible.

Harry frowned at the sight and stole a quick glance at his companions. Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy both wore perfect masks of calmness, as if there was absolutely nothing wrong with the picture stretching before them. Their son—Draco, Harry believed his name was—looked around with mixture of boredom and mild scorn of his face. It was obvious that this Draco Malfoy had been to Diagon Alley before, too, and therefore Harry was left entirely alone with his disappointed thoughts.

Harry had long ago learned that, when in doubt, the wisest thing to do was to watch and observe. Therefore, he silently followed after the Mafloys from shop to shop, bought his cauldron and books and a telescope, whilst all the while taking in every little detail that was etched into the scenery surrounding him.

He heard every little whisper that passed hushed from lips to lips; whispers full of war, danger, and Light and Dark. He understood that the fear wasn't just a gloss over everything. It was decades worth of worry and uncertainty that had dug deep into the people and the society itself. It was like poison, barely noticeable but definitely destructive and unstoppable.

Harry noticed the missing leg of the man keeping the apothecary and saw the scar tissue crisscrossing the face of a woman who was buying a book on house warding from _Flourish and Blotts._ He observed how officially robed wizards—aurors, he later learned—patrolled the streets in watchful pairs, keeping an eye on everyone and everything. He also heard a broken, haggard, wreck of a man scream vile insults at the aurors and accuse them of things they might or might not have done, before he was forcefully dragged away.

Two long lists of names were attached onto a large notice boards just outside the Gringotts Wizarding Bank. One of them was titled 'Confirmed Missing' and the other one 'Confirmed Dead'. A herd of people was gathered in front of them. They stood in a grim half circle, reading the names over and over, and either breaking down in tears or leaving with a barely notable relief lifting their shoulders.

Harry reluctantly acknowledged that perhaps there was a valid reason behind the fear. He didn't yet understand what it could be and at this point he wasn't sure he wanted to.

…o0o…

Mrs. Malfoy was a tall, beautiful, woman with a notable tendency to bossiness.

She steered them through their little shopping trip with easy eloquence and determination, systematically and in perfect order. Harry noted with fascination that her son clearly didn't know any way to oppose her and almost meekly submitted to her will, whilst Mr. Malfoy—who occasionally _tried _to protest—was gently and subtly coaxed to go along with Mrs. Malfoy's little whims, so that in the end he probably thought he had gotten his word through.

Mrs. Malfoy was a force of nature, and Harry himself found out quickly that he neither could bring himself to argue with her. Therefore, he had ended up with a set of emerald-green quills, because apparently "they matched with the colour of his eyes so perfectly", and a ridiculous _hair potion _from the apothecary because apparently it was supposed to "help him tame that impossible hair". Harry wasn't sure if he liked Mrs. Malfoy, or if he was honestly terrified of her.

For their school uniforms, she guided them into a shop that went by the name of _Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions_.

They were greeted by Madam Malkin herself, an elderly witch who had a gentle, patient, smile and wrinkles of laughter at the corners of her eyes. She exchanged a few quick words with Mrs. Malfoy, mostly complementing her lavish, sapphire-blue, robes, before ushered both Harry and Draco into the back of the shop to have their school robes fitted.

It was the first time when Harry was left alone with the blonde boy. Harry had somewhat prepared for the moment, since he had noticed the boy glance at him several times throughout the day, curious and calculative at the same time. It was obvious that the boy was impatient to have his thirst for knowledge sated, but had been hesitant to act on it in the presence of his parents. Now that they were out of the way, there was very little that could hold him back, it turned out.

"I'm Draco," the Malfoy boy introduced himself, when they stood on low stools, having their robes fitted and fixed by a few enthusiastic shop assistants.

Harry nodded. "I know." Then it dawned to him that it could be considered quite rude, and quickly added, "I'm Harry."

"I know," Draco Malfoy tossed Harry's own words back at him, as a slight drawl entered his voice. "So, what house do you think you'll be sorted into, _Harry_," the boy asked then and sounded so much like his father that Harry had to suppress a small snort.

"I don't really care. Everything's fine with me," Harry replied, but silently wondered if the Dark Lord agreed with him. It did seem unlikely that the man would concern himself with such a petty matter as to which house Harry was sorted into, but one never knew with the Dark Lord. Harry should probably ask some time if the man had any preferences. After all, it was better be safe than sorry.

Draco huffed disdainfully at Harry's reply. "Right. Well, I know I'll be sorted into Slytherin. It's something of a family tradition."

"Cunning and ambition," Harry recalled what he had read about the Slytherin house and offered a small smile as a peace-offering. He didn't think that Draco liked him all that much, but then again, the feeling was more or less mutual.

"Exactly," Draco nodded and gazed Harry thoughtfully. "Maybe you aren't so bad after all. Do you like Quidditch?"

Harry wondered why the other boy was asking him all these questions. Maybe to lull him into sense of security and trying to make him reveal something actually important? Harry decided to keep his replies as vague and carefully as possible.

"I'm not sure. I have never played," he told. He had never quite understood the fascination with the wizarding sport. It seemed a bit pointless to fly around in the air just tossing, hitting, finding and dodging balls of all sizes.

"Hmph," Draco commented and his opinion about Harry seemed to go down a notch. Then he's attention was momentarily diverted, as the witch who had been fitting his robes accidentally picked him with a pin, and Draco spent a moment snarling at her irritably.

When his attention returned to Harry, he observing Harry with eyes narrow and calculative. "Why are you here with us? Where are your parents?" he asked, almost challengingly.

Harry hesitated for a very brief moment, before replied honestly, "They're dead."

This seemed to take Draco by surprise. "Oh, I didn't know that."

"Yes, I noticed," Harry replied curtly and felt himself growing more and more irritated with the conversation by the minute. There was something about Draco's bored drawl and condescending attitude that made Harry feel increasingly uncomfortable. Draco clearly noticed the change in Harry's mood as well and seemed strangely pleased by it, judging by the small smirk appearing on his narrow lips.

"They were like _us_, weren't they, though?" Draco asked next, almost casually, but his intent expression betrayed the weigh behind the words. At first Harry didn't grasp his meaning at all, but the sharp inhale from the assistant seamstress and the disapproving look that followed were rather good hints.

"Magical folk, you mean?" Harry asked, his tone sharper than he had meant. "Since I know absolutely nothing about them, I can hardly tell, now can I? They have been dead for almost as long as I've been alive."

Harry had never given much thought to his long-dead parents, since they had always been just faceless shades, just at the edge of his memory. Occasionally he would wonder what kind of people they had been, but that was about it. They weren't _important_. Harry didn't know anything about them. And since he didn't remember them at all, he didn't particularly feel like he was missing out on something. He did have the Dark Lord, after all, and Harry was quite sure he wouldn't trade him for all the parents in the world.

However, it did seem very strange how overly curious about Harry's parentage Draco was. It was almost as if the boy expected the knowledge about Harry's parents to reveal some big, dirty, secret about Harry himself. But since _that _was a very illogical idea, Harry ignored the possibility with a small mental snort.

Draco didn't seem to share his sentiments, though, since he was staring at Harry suspiciously, as if his answer had just been the worst one possible.

"What's your surname then?" he asked then, unwilling to let the issue of Harry's family drop.

Harry huffed, "It's none of your business, really."

Then, to Harry's great relief, Madam Malkin who had been working on his robes declared that she was done, and Harry hopped down. He made a quick escape to the checkout counter and left a silently fuming Draco to take his fury out on the poor shop assistant.

Draco was still shooting cold looks at Harry when they left the shop and stepped into the bustling alley. Harry ignored him easily.

Mrs. Malfoy was skimming thoughtfully through Draco's Hogwarts letter. "There are only a few things left on your list, so I think we sh—"

A loud explosion from a few buildings north from them shattered every window in the quarter. The sound drowned out the rest of Mrs. Malfoy's sentence and left ears ringing. A few ear-splitting screams and lots of yelling followed immediately after, and Harry swirled towards the ruckus, searching for the source. Dark smoke rose from an old residence building and flames ate unnaturally quickly up the walls and within seconds the whole building was ablaze.

"What—" Harry managed, before iron fingers grasped his shoulder and he was hauled into the opposite direction. Harry stared wide-eyed how the raising smoke painted the sky black and how the frantic people tried to get as far away as humanly possible, while stumbling into each other in their blind panic. Blood rushed in Harry's ears, almost drowning out the increasing shouts.

"I thought there was supposed to be no attacks today," Harry could hear Mrs. Malfoy hissing to her husband in quiet voice. There was no fear in her tone, just sharp displeasure at how things had turned out.

"Probably someone gone rogue," Mr. Malfoy replied just as quietly. His tone was stiff and expression alert, but he didn't seem worried. "They are probably working alone, but right now this is not the best place to be."

At first Harry didn't understand what they were talking about or why they were reacting so calmly to the unexpected disarray. But then, mostly by accident, Harry could catch quick flash of black robes and a golden mask further away, before the quick vision disappeared into the sea of panicked people.

The heart froze in his chest and he _knew_.

_Death Eaters_.

Death Eaters were the source of this choking fear in the air. They were the faceless danger that seemed to hide in the each step and each expression of these ordinary witches and wizards. They were the War, Harry had overheard people whisper about to each other in hushed tones in shops and dark alleyways. It was so painfully obvious, then. The very purpose of the Death Eaters dawned to Harry in those few fleeting seconds that passed before his very eyes.

They were an army. _The Dark Lord's army_. And army he was using to fight against. . .against _what_? The wizarding world? The mere thought was mad, absolutely ludicrous.

One thing Harry knew for sure was that the Dark Lord harboured unhindered appreciation for anything magical. He had told so Harry himself. The Dark Lord had spent hours lost in thought, as he had described in detail all the little magical things which he admired and which seemed to still leave him in silent awe. To the Dark Lord magic was _everything_. He lived and breathed it with his every living day. He surrounded himself with magic and studied it with utmost interest. The Dark Lord _was _magic. Magic sizzled around him, restless and strong, and seemed to pulsate out of him with his every spoken word. Anyone could feel it when in the same room with them man.

And then there was the wizarding community which was the very heart of magic. It had been created around it and now they lived in an odd symbiosis where the magic supported the people and the people supported the magic. There was no witch nor wizard who did not love magic with every fibre of their being. It was simply a _part _of them, like a leg or an arm. To every magical being magic was just as vital as it was to the Dark Lord.

Therefore, it was strange. . . no, _impossible_. . . that the Dark Lord would have turned against that. Harry might have still somehow understood, if the Dark Lord had waged his war against the _muggles_, but the idea of a war against other wizards and witches was too mind-boggling for Harry to even being to comprehend.

Everything was wrong, upside down and confusing. Nothing made _sense_.

It was not supposed the be like this. The _world _was not supposed to be like this. The all-consuming chaos and the thick taste of fear and desperation in the air were not what Harry had expected. It was supposed to be amazing, this magical world he was blessed to be part of. This world that surrounded him now was half dead already, void of true magic and hope.

Suddenly he wanted to be alone, away from the Malfoys and far away from the fear that dwelled in Diagon Alley. He needed to _think_. He needed to organize the new data he had gathered and reform his opinions and expectations. Nothing was like Harry had first thought, and now he needed to _understand_, because if he didn't he'd slowly go mad.

Therefore, Harry froze motionless and let the chaos swallow up his presence, slowly fading from the attention of the people nearby, until he simply wasn't there anymore. He slipped away in silence and no one even noticed him gone.

Harry ran, ran like he had never ran before.

…o0o…

When he finally stopped, it was in front of a dirty shop window.

He stood there, grasping the windowsill and shaking from head to toe, and tried to catch his breath. Through the glass of the window, he stared at the single wand laid out on a purple velvet cushion. A quick glance confirmed what Harry already suspected; over the door in peeling golden letters read,_ Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. _Harry didn't hesitate, but grasped the handle and slipped in through the door. If there was something he needed—no, something he _wanted_—it was a wand. Something concrete to hold against this. . . this utter _mess_.

A bell above the door _ching_ed once, when Harry stepped in.

There was no one in sight and Harry took an unhurried look around, taking in the shelves and high stacks full of wand boxes. It was very silent, all sounds muffled by a layer of old dust. The whole shop smelled of time and past years. It was an entirely separate world from the one behind the door, a very calming world, and Harry felt himself relax bit by bit. The tension and unease he had been feeling all day left his body in a huff of breath and he half collapsed onto a chair by the door.

Harry's hands shook when he stared down at them and the shaking wouldn't stop no matter how he glared at them. It was a pathetic display of weakness, even in Harry's own opinion. Furthermore, there was absolutely no reason for it. Harry hadn't been at danger himself and he hadn't been afraid for even a second. He was in control of himself completely and yet his body disagreed. His legs felt weak and there was a slight ringing in his ears. His heart pounded against his ribs, restless like a caged bird. And his hands just _wouldn't stop shaking_.

It was ridiculous. Pointless. And yet Harry was half tempted to reach for the pocket watch hidden in his robes—his emergency portkey—and leave this place behind right now. Even the quick thought given to the Dark Lord's fury wasn't enough to drive the temptation away. Harry wanted to go home and _stay _there for the undetermined eternity.

The sound of nearing steps shook Harry from his thoughts and soon an old, white-haired and wrinkly man appeared from between the shelves. Harry quickly got up from the chair, feeling irrationally guilty.

"Ah, my, my, Mr. Potter," the old man, who could be no one else than Mr. Ollivander himself, said in greeting and smiled a strange mysterious smile. "What an unexpectedly expected surprise."

Harry's eyes narrowed into suspicious slits and his left hand snuck into his robe pocket where it curled around the silver pocket watch. "How do you know who I am?"

Mr. Ollivander's genial smile didn't waver. "You look remarkably like your father and your eyes are not unlike your mother's. Although, I did wonder for moment if I was mistaken after all. . . considering the circumstances. I am rather glad you saw it fit to confirm my suspicion."

It was strange for sure, but Harry had been expecting worse. If nothing else, he had been waiting for something a bit more. . . mysterious. The whole shop had eerie feeling to it and Mr. Ollivander himself was a strange old fellow. But apparently nothing magical was involved, just pointless genetic relations and a bit of logical thinking. Harry felt irrationally disappointed. He discreetly released his hold on the portkey.

"I assume you are here for a wand, Mr. Potter?" Mr. Ollicander asked then, eyeing Harry like a new specimen about to be examined.

Harry blinked and cleared his throat. "Well, I suppose so. I came in because yours was the first door I saw when I needed one, but I guess I could buy my wand, too," Harry told honestly.

"Excellent, excellent," Mr. Ollivander commented genially and dug out a measure tape from somewhere. He took a few measures, quickly and precisely, before disappeared behind the shelves again. He reappeared soon along with a few wand boxes.

"I remember each and every wand I have ever sold, Mr. Potter," Mr. Ollivander told, as he opened one of the boxes and withdraw a dark-wooded wand. "Every single one. Eleven inches and mahogany for one James Potter. Good for Transfigurations, it was, quite a bit like this one." The old man passed the wand on to Harry, who accepted it without hesitating.

Harry didn't feel any different, and the wand felt like a piece of wood it was in his hand. The wood was smooth, slightly cool to touch and the weigh was surprisingly comforting. Harry waved the wand experimentally, a quick flick of his wrist like he had seen spells performed hundreds of times. A stack of wand boxes nearby exploded haphazardly, clattering loudly, as it collapsed in a cloud of dust.

"Hm, no. Definitely not," Mr. Ollivander muttered and snatched the wand away with a small shake of his head. Before Harry could get over the initial shock, a new wand was already pressed into his hands.

"James Potter. . . My father?" Harry asked, partly curious, partly just out of politeness.

"Of course. I _have_ made the wands of the last few generations of Potters," Mr. Ollivander smiled and did not question. "And your mother came here as well. Lily Evans, I believe her names was. She was a muggleborn, yes, but also an absolutely delightful young witch. She was something of a tricky customer, if I recall correctly. Ten inches and swishy willow, excellent for Charms work."

Harry memorised their names carefully. Just in case that Draco cornered him again some time, of course.

In the end, Harry, too, turned out to be a tricky customer. He tried a wand after a wand, all different lengths and combinations materials. Every single one feeling different from the previous ones, but all of them just _wrong _somehow. Harry was getting mildly worried and wondered if he was not meant to have a wand at all.

But even after ten, fifteen, and twenty wands, Mr. Ollivander hadn't lost his optimistic view. "Do not worry, Mr. Potter. A certain saying has always lived amongst those who have studied the wandlore, 'The wand. . .'"

". . .chooses the wizard," Harry finished for him and smiled a little.

Harry had run across the phrase before, a long time ago, when he had got this idea of crafting his own wand stuck in his head. He had read a few books on wandlore and afterwards imagined that he knew everything about it. He had snuck out of the Manor to collect sticks and twigs from the graveyard of Little Hangleton, where huge old trees of all species cast shadows over the graves. He had ordered the house elves to fetch him all kinds of magical things, phoenix feathers and unicorn and kelpie hair, for example. The elves had obediently—though, reluctantly—done exactly that, returning from their quest weeks later and looking ruffled and worse for wear. It was only after acquiring the necessary ingredients that Harry had realized that he had actually no idea how to get the core into the wand. That had been the mortifying end of his career as a wandmaker.

"Exactly, Mr. Potter," Mr. Ollivander confirmed with a nod. "It would seem that you're a difficult client. I have always enjoyed a good challenge every now and then. Maybe the occasion requires something more. . .more. . ."

The wandmaker didn't finish his sentence, before disappeared between the shelves and stacks again. It took him longer to return this time and when he did he was holding only one wand box. It was a dusty and old-looking box which looked like it had been waiting for its wizard for quite a while.

"I wonder. . ." Mr. Ollivander mumbled, looking thoughtfully at the wand box and then at Harry again. A small frown creased his brow, when he opened to box and offered the wand within almost hesitantly to Harry who accepted it curiously. "Maybe this one. . . yes. . . Eleven inches, holly and phoenix feather for a core. Nice and supple."

When Harry's fingers enclosed around the wooden handle, warmth begun to spread to his fingers. It run up to his elbows and sent electric shivers down his spine, when a feeling of _rightness _settled in. Harry gasped in a small quick breath which wheezed out of him with a silent words, "It's this one."

"Ah," Mr. Ollivander nodded understandingly and that small strange smile on his widened slightly. "Well, give it a go."

Harry raised the wand gently and flicked. Fiery red sparkles burst from the tip of the wand, danced in the air and died quickly, but the rush of exhilaration that the success brought lived on. Harry laughed, a small almost involuntary expression of relief and simple satisfaction.

He had waited for this day for longer than he could remember. Each _inch _of him had always known that he was created to cast magic. He had felt it prickling just underneath his skin, so close and yet out of his grasp, utterly unattainable. Sometimes the magic had grown too impatient and had torn out of him in an act of accidental magic. Those times had been quick and unwanted remainders of what he would one day, but not quite yet, have. Especially since the magic had always calmed down eventually and withdrawn, and the gift, the offered glimmer of power and skill and brilliance, was mercilessly taken from him again. It had been frustrating beyond belief.

But not anymore. Now it was all _here_, right at Harry's finger tips, gently channelled thought this small piece of wood. It felt. . . incredible, yes, but slightly frightening at the same time. Harry draw a deep breath, pushing all thoughts away from his mind for the time being and turned to look at Mr. Ollivander again.

"I'll take this one," he told firmly.

"Of course, you will," Mr. Ollivander smiled. "The wand has already chosen you, Mr. Potter. It would not accept anyone else."

"Good," Harry said and gave the wand back to the wandmaker. It was _his _wand now, no one else would ever cast a single spell with it.

"It is curious, however. Very curious, indeed," Mr. Ollivander muttered mysteriously, as he placed Harry's wand back into its worn box and wrapped it into brown paper.

"What's curious?" Harry asked.

"I remember every wand I ever crafted and every wand I ever sold," Mr. Ollivander told, a distant look rising to his eyes. "As it happens, the phoenix who gave the feather which was used as a core for your wand, also gave another. Just one. When you first entered, I was sure I had to be mistaken, but no, I could recognize the handiwork of one of my own wands _anywhere_. It is very curious that _this_ wand," Mr. Ollivander offered the wrapped wand box back to Harry. "Would choose you as its master, when its brother gave you that scar."

Mr. Ollivander's strange pale eyes fastened pointedly onto the lightning shaped scar on Harry's forehead. A cold chill run down Harry's spine as he grasped the meaning of the words.

"The Dark Lord," Harry whispered, an overwhelming wave of awe washing him over and drowning him. "But. . . how. . . I don't. . ." The words would not come, but Mr. Ollivander seemed to understand anyway, as he nodded slightly wonderingly himself.

"The world works in mysterious ways, indeed," Mr. Ollivander said. Then he offered a small strange smile. "These are interesting times we are living, Mr. Potter, are they not? That would be seven galleons."

Harry didn't know how else to react, so he merely paid for his wand with the large gold coins.

When leaving the shop, he stopped at the door to turn around once more.

"Mr. Ollivander, you wouldn't happen to know his name? His _real_ name, I mean," Harry asked, mostly out of curiosity, but also because this old wandmaker seemed to know uncannily much about other people's business.

Mr. Ollivander shook his head ever so slightly. "I might or might not, Mr. Potter. But the fact remains that he is one of those people who are better left unnamed."

"Hm, very well," Harry answered, disappointed but filing the information carefully so he may observe it more closely later on. "Thank you, anyway."

"Pleasure has been all mine, Mr. Potter."

Harry could feel those strange eyes follow him as he stepped out of the door. He didn't walk for long, just far enough from the wand shop, so that he was out of the range of that all-seeing gaze. Then he stopped into the shade of the over leaning buildings and glanced quickly around. There were few people in sight and none of them was paying any particular attention to Harry. So, with quick fingers Harry ripped the paper wrapping from around the wand box, tore the box open and curled his fingers around the wooden handle of his wand.

A sigh, mixture of relief and anxiety, left him in a huff.

Harry raised the wand to eye level and observed it keenly. It looked the same as when Harry first saw it—all smooth dark wood, light and lithe—but it felt different now, more powerful, somehow, and almost sinister in its apparent innocence. Now Harry _knew_ what it actually was, this small piece of wood: a brother wand to that of the Dark Lord's.

It seemed absurd, absolutely ridiculous, that even this small seemingly insignificant detail of his life was intimately tied to the Dark Lord. Every thread of Harry's life spin around the Dark Lord's spidery hands and should the man wish so, he could make Harry dance like a marionette. It had always been that way and would always be that way, Harry knew, but for some irrational reason he felt angry now. On some level, he had hoped that this one thing he could have all to himself. He had believed that his wand would be _his_ alone. But now the wand was forever tied to Dark Lord's yew wand, just like Harry was tied to the Dark Lord.

A defiant thought of simply _not telling _the Dark Lord rose unbidden into Harry's mind.

It was a dangerous thought. Should the Dark Lord ever find out that Harry had kept a something this significant from him, there would be hell to pay. But on the other hand, Harry somehow felt that this was _his _secret. It was his wand, after all, it had (mostly) nothing to do with the Dark Lord.

Harry didn't make up his mind then, but left the decision open. He slipped the wand into the safety of the robe pocket, where the silver watch already rested.

Right now he would have to get going, because the Malfoys had surely noticed him gone by now and Harry _had _heard what the Dark Lord had threatened them with, in the case that something happened to Harry. The thought of it made Harry feel almost guilty, but since nothing hadn't actually happened to him, he was quick to push the guilt from his mind.

He started to track back the way he had come from.

…o0o…

Harry spotted the Malfoys relatively easily from the masses of the people, since their light hair stood out remarkably well from the grey dullness of the surrounding environment.

Harry slowly navigated his way closer. He spent a good while just analysing the scene before him, as he tried to judge how deep in trouble he was. Mr. Malfoy was discussing something in low but urgent voices with one of the watchmen aurors and Mrs. Malfoy had wandered a bit further away, pretending to study the display window of a shop called_ Twilfitt and Tattings,_ while discreetly glancing up and down the alley with a worried look on her face. Draco stood close to his father with a look of utter annoyance branded across his face.

Well, at least they had noticed Harry gone then.

Harry tried to come up with the least painful way to spring himself onto them again, when a wild thought, a _dangerous_ thought, danced across the front of his mind—it seemed to be one of those days when thoughts like that just popped up in his mind without invitation. Harry's eyes fastened onto Draco and he formed a quick and reckless draft of a plan.

Harry was tired of it, all the confusion and the anger it brought along with it. Harry needed _answers_, something concrete this time.

Harry knew he was not supposed to cast spells before he turned seventeen, but it was such a ridiculous rule, anyway. He could later write it off as a pit of an accidental magic that had been set of by the new wand that heightened his connection to his magic. Harry lifted the holly wand carefully and with a quick swish sent off a stinging hex. He had read about it plenty, but had never tried to actually cast it before.

It must have worked because Draco jumped almost a feet into air and whilst Harry couldn't hear it, he clearly _saw_ the following '_oww_'. And just like Harry had hoped, Draco turned to shoot an angry glare around, searching for the source of his discomfort. It didn't take long before he spotted Harry, wand still raised and looking directly at Draco, and his mouth opened and closed a few times when he tried to comprehend what he was seeing. Then Draco slowly lifted his other hand, clearly intending to alert his father to Harry's sudden appearance, but Harry's quick and frantic shake of head made him hesitate. Left hand still hovering in the air, Draco slowly lifted an eyebrow, demanding answers.

Harry raised his index finger to his lips, shook slowly his head and then beckoned Draco to come to him with his other hand. Draco blinked slowly, staring. Harry silently begged with all his might that curiosity would get better of Draco's common sense. In the end, he wasn't disappointed. The hovering hand lowered and Draco exchanged a few words with his father, pointing into the direction of a Quidditch gear shop not too far from the spot where Harry was standing. Apparently, Mr. Malfoy wasn't particularly interested at the moment, since he gave a sharp reply and Draco started to wander closer with a casual expression on his face.

When he got to Harry, his expression turned sour.

"Do you have any idea how mental my parents are going with you missing?" Draco asked and tsked. "Has anyone ever told you that your manners are appal—"

Harry cut the tirade short before it had even properly begun. He shoved the boy harshly against the brick wall of the building behind them and pressed the tip of his brand new wand against the thin neck. A small horrified squeak cut the air but Harry was quick to muffle it with his other hand.

"Tell me what you know!" he snarled with his best impression of the Dark Lord and scowled threateningly. It was surprisingly difficult, trying to appear angry when he really wasn't, but he must have succeeded somewhat, because even more panicked expression took over Draco's face. Harry lifted his hand slightly, beckoning him Draco speak.

"Are you mad?" Draco cried out immediately after the hand was lifted. Harry replied by digging his wand deeper into his skin.

"Answer me!" he ordered and this time the impatience wasn't even feigned.

"I don't even know what you want," the boy replied, eyeing Harry nervously like expecting him to snap any second now. Clearly he thought Harry either mad or skilled enough to actually curse him. Harry decided that his little experiment was succeeding a lot better than he had even expected.

"What's his name?" Harry asked.

"Whose?" Draco asked back and the word came out as a startled squeak.

"The Dark Lord's!" Harry huffed, exasperated. He had assumed it rather obvious.

Draco's expression turned into one of absolute horror. "_What? _I can't _say _it!"

"You better or else. . ." Harry warned and lifted the wand pointedly.

"It's a _taboo_! The second I say it, there will be a swarm of Death Eaters trying to tear us apart!" Draco explained, so quickly that the practically stumbled over the words. Apparently fear made him lose some of his eloquence.

"Well, that's inconvenient," Harry mumbled and sighed. The Dark Lord certainly had some serious issues concerning his name. It couldn't be _that_ bad. "Well, it doesn't really matted now. I have more questions, though, and I expect honest answers. What's this war everyone speaks about?"

Draco stared at Harry like he had just sprouted another pair of ears and a tail to go with them. "You can't be serious," he said then, some of the tension leaving his shoulders, as if he was no convinced that Harry wasn't actually serious about any of this at all.

"Please, just answer the question," Harry said sharply and brought his wand just below Draco's chin. A point where he could easily blast off the boy's head. . . assuming he knew the right spell, which he didn't, and that he had any intentions of doing so, which he didn't either.

"I. . . I don't really know. I mean, there clearly _is _a war between the Dark Lord and the Ministry, but I don't know when and where it started," Draco confessed and twitched slightly, discomfort clear in his expression. "I mean it has been gone for so long that I doubt anyone remembers where it begun."

Harry heaved a small sigh and let his wand lower. "I'll just have to ask the Da. . .um. . . someone else then."

Draco exhaled a shaky breath and started to slide down the brick wall behind him. The motion didn't stop until he sat there on the ground and run a hand across his pointy face. His hands were shaking and there was a slight shimmer of sweat on his forehead. His expression was a strange mixture of relief, poorly hidden irritation and slight remains of fear. Harry felt a bit guilty and offered his hand to pull the other boy up.

"I wouldn't have _really _cursed you, you know," he told sheepishly and was mildly relieved when Draco accepted the offered hand and let himself be pulled up from the dirty back alley ground. "I just. . . Well, I just really needed some answers." Not that he had gotten any and all he all he had now was just more questions.

"You could have just asked," Draco muttered. He carefully avoided looking at Harry as wiped dust from his dark robes.

"I had to make sure you told the truth," Harry answered. "I'm sorry."

Draco seemed to consider it for a while, before nodded a bit stiffly. "Accepted. But only because I'm feeling generous and because I knew you weren't really serious. You aren't very convincing at this interrogation business," he told, and the haughty drawl was back in his voice, although, less prominent than before. "I mean, '_please'_? Seriously, didn't it cross your mind that a wand on my neck might have been more than enough 'please' to get me talking?"

Harry hid a small smile and nodded. "Thank you."

"You're an idiot," Draco told him, but there as no actual bite to the words. Then he shook his head despairingly, "My father is going to kill both of us." Harry greatly doubted Mr. Malfoy would have dared.

They left together, walking towards the timorous hustle of the Diagon Alley, in something that could be described as an almost companionable silence.

…o0o…

When Harry returned home that evening, he felt centuries older than he had felt in the morning.

He was tired and his bones were weary. All the things he had seen still burned behind his eyelids and the things he had heard still rang in his ears. He wanted to sleep, wanted to curl under his duvet and hide from the world he had encountered today. He wanted to forget and just _dream _for awhile.

He didn't, though.

Instead, he went to the Dark Lord, because that's what he always does.

For some unexplainable reason even now—when all Harry really wanted was peace and calm—he was still drawn to the turmoil that was the Dark Lord. He was like a half blind moth and the only fire that burned brightly enough to guide him was this Dark, dangerous, and half mad shard of a man. Maybe it was _Harry, _who was the mad one.

When he slipped into the Dark Lord's study, the man sat behind the desk writing a letter with a small frown on his face. It suited Harry just fine. He didn't speak, but simply collapsed into the armchair in the corner. All the stubborn strength, that had barely kept him going, oozed out of his body. After awhile the Dark Lord's quill slowed down, faltered in the air and stopped. When Harry still didn't speak, didn't even look up, the quill was slowly lowered to rest on the half-finished letter. The Dark Lord leaned back on his chair and observed.

Seconds passed and turned into minutes. When Harry finally spoke, he was too tired to be afraid of the consequences.

"Who are you?" he asked and the words fell like stones and the silence rippled like the surface of a lake.

The Dark Lord didn't answer. Harry wondered if it was because he didn't want to, or because he didn't know the answer.

"_What _are you, then?" Harry insisted, unwilling to let the topic die. Somehow it felt that he _needed _to know the answer to these questions. He had gone years without them, yes, but right now his life depended on the knowledge. He may not understand the world, but surely he could understand this one man if he were just given the chance.

The Dark Lord seemed to hesitate. It was a brief flash of an expression, but so outrageously out of place on his face that Harry couldn't have missed it.

"I am what I am," the Dark Lord told vaguely, something strange entering his crimson eyes. "I am certain that you have seen enough to form your own opinion."

Harry almost laughed at that, but was quick to suppress it into a small wry smile, instead. Oh, Harry had seen enough for sure. He had seen so terribly much that he didn't know anymore what was true and what was not. He had encountered so many different aspect of the Dark Lord, that all he really had, was a great collection of tiny jigsaw puzzle pieces which didn't fit together.

Harry let his smile fade and sighed. "Did you know that there's a war out there?"

The Dark Lord looked at Harry sharply, seemed to wonder, but not apologize. He never apologized for anything. He nodded once. "I have heard of it."

"It carries your name, this war," Harry told. There was no accusation in the words; it was a mere statement. His heart was steady in his chest, calm and unwavering. The anxiety he had been feeling most of the day was gone. The exhaustion was fading into simple sleepiness. Everything was. . . alright.

The Dark Lord looked as detached and distant as ever, but when he spoke fleeting interest shone through the words, "Does it now?"

"Mhmm," Harry hummed an affirmation. "It's whispered there, right out on the streets. The whole world is falling apart and they say it's because of you. I don't think that's what you want. I don't think this war is what you really want."

The Dark Lord gave Harry a strange look. "What is it that I want then?"

"I don't know," Harry confessed. He sighed a little. "Sometimes I wish I did, but I think I'm better of not knowing."

The Dark Lord had nothing to say to that. He stared at Harry intently for a while and, for the first time ever, Harry didn't find that look unnerving but strangely soothing.

"Do you understand now, why you have to do all of this?" the Dark Lord asked suddenly. He picked up his wand and swirled it through his fingers in that familiar practised manner that brought a small unconscious smile onto Harry's face. Then he realised what the Dark Lord was asking and blinked. Of course, there had been a test somewhere in there. There always was with the Dark Lord.

"I understand nothing anymore," Harry sighed, weariness making him foolishly honest.

To his slight surprise the Dark Lord rewarded him a small wry smirk. "Exactly. If I had told you any of this, you would not have believed a word. What you see, however, you have to choice but to accept. Understanding will come later."

Harry would have laughed, if he hadn't felt so much like crying.

Instead, he simply looked at the Dark Lord and told him, "Sometimes, I don't understand you at all."

After that they fell into silence. The Dark Lord returned to his letter after a while, and Harry curled into his armchair, hugged his knees to his chest and watched how rain clouds formed over the village of Little Hangleton. It was peaceful and just what Harry needed then. The silent scratching of quill against the parchment, the crackle of fire and an occasional frustrated sigh from the Dark Lord. The world could have been falling apart right then and Harry would not have cared in the least. This was enough for now.

A thought crossed Harry's mind, when he gazed at the Dark Lord through his half closed eyelashes, just about to fall asleep in the soft armchair. A weak chuckle escaped him and he drifted away with a smile still lingering on his lips:

It is always calmest in the eye of the storm.

…o0o…

_- tbc- _

…o0o…


	4. Chapter 3

As usual, enormous thanks for all the reviews, favs and alerts. I still can't quite believe how many people actually enjoy this story.

Hope you enjoy it this time too!

…o0o…

**I**n **D**eath, **S**tandby

**Chapter III**

_Matters of Blood and Blood that Matters_

…o0o…

Emerald green eyes blinked open exactly quarter past six in the morning, coaxed to alertness by eerie shapes of light that the rising sun had painted on the western wall of the room. Harry squinted his eyes in the dim orange and yellow light, taking in the messy bedroom with a dazed gaze and sleepy mind. A small unwitting groan escaped his lips as he buried his face into his pillow, willing the sun away with all his might and the dawning day to turn back to the calm hours of night. But alas, he wasn't yet wizard good enough to switch off the sun or to twist time at his will and the course of the day continued on its eternal way despite his wishes.

Harry startled a bit more awake, when his pillow suddenly twisted under his head, and he reluctantly rose to lean against his elbows to poke the offending cushion a few times.

_:Nagini, you lazy thing, haven't I told you a hundred times to sleep somewhere else than here,: _he mumbled before let his head fall down again, ignoring completely the growing twitching and the slowly appearing snake that slithered from underneath his pillow and blanket to rest her triangle head on top of Harry's messy black hair. Harry could feel a forked tongue tickling his ear and blindly tried to swat the blasted snake away, but missed his target by inches.

_:But you're so warm, snakeling,: _Nagini replied calmly, sleepiness so clear in the words that they came out as something akin to a very snakeish yawn, rather than actual hisses. Harry made an effort and mumbled something incoherent in reply.

_:Though, I'd enjoy sleeping here more, if you silly humans didn't insist on waking up so early. Look, even the sun is barely up!: _Nagini continued and her tone gained a new incredulous note, as if she found it a personal offence that anyone would wake at crack dawn. Her large body twisted a few more times, as she manoeuvred herself up enough to turn towards the windows, and give the in-pouring light an affronted glare.

Harry pushed down the urge to inform the snake that it wasn't _his _fault that he always woke so early. Waking up like this was a deeply rooted habit, hammered into his head by one crazy Dark Lord, who insisted that it was foolish to waste the few hours of daylight. Harry had found this reasoning highly irrational, since the Dark Lord himself was a rather nocturnal being. After all, most of his shady businesses weren't considered exactly appropriate in direct daylight. And besides, the man was a _wizard_! If he needed more light, he could very well make some. But since Harry wasn't stupid or suicidal, he had kept his opinion mostly to himself and indulged the Dark Lord's whims by setting his daily rhythm to begin at the cue of these first rays of sunshine.

Harry could have explained this to Nagini in his defence, but he suspected that the snake already knew. Besides, Nagini was a known gossiper and a loudmouth, so any criticism from Harry would reach the ears of the Dark Lord before lunch time. The man didn't react well to complaints, so whining about meaningless little thing—such as an early wake up call, for example—would probably sent him over the edge and into one of his violent tantrums. Harry lived in a house where a certain level of secretiveness was a close companion of self-preservation.

_:I'd happily sleep some more if you'd just shut up,: _Harry answered instead, but knew already that he had no hope of falling back to sleep. Heaving a small, annoyed sigh he stretched slowly and luxuriously, whilst 'accidentally' pushing Nagini's huge bulk just enough with his arm, so that the snake rolled over the edge of the soft bed and landed onto the floorboards with a loud _thud _and an annoyed hiss. Harry let out a quiet hissed laugher.

_:Some manners would do you no harm, snakeling,: _Nagini hissed irritably.

_:You're hardly one to give me lessons on the topic, are you Nagi?: _Harry shot back smugly. _:It's a good thing most humans can't understand you or else someone might have chopped you into potion ingredients already.:_

_:No one would dare!: _Nagini argued, outraged by the mere thought, and Harry leaned over the edge of his bed to give the snake a wide, reassuring, grin.

_:Don't worry, I wouldn't let them,: _he promised kindly, before added, _:I have always wanted to find out if it'd be possible make a pair of boots out of you.:_

_:You obnoxious hatchling!:_

Harry chuckled at the snake's insulted tone, as he crawled out of his comfy bed and crossed the room to his wardrobe. He could hear how behind him Nagini slithered back onto the bed and coiled between the sheets to absorb the last of the lingering warmth.

Harry stopped by the windows long enough to glance through the curtains into their miserable wreck of a garden and down to the graveyard that spread out just bellow the hill onto which the Manor was built. Those same warm colours of sunrise that had first woken Harry painted the scenery with red and orange. The sun was slowly climbing up to shine over the tree tops beyond the graveyard. It would be a beautiful day again, very beautiful, which was a bit unusual this late in autumn.

_:Do you know what day it is, Nagi?: _Harry asked casually as pulled the double doors of his wardrobe open and pulled out the first robes he saw.

_:Day? I don't care about days," _Nagini grumbled. Harry huffed silently at the reply, amused.

Sometimes it was so easy to forget that he was talking to a snake. Of course, Nagini didn't care about days, since time held very little meaning to her kind. The sun came up and it went down for a while, only to raise again. That's what all there was to it, in Nagini's opinion. She didn't count days or measure time, but thought things like that were something only humans did, just to make life more difficult for themselves.

_:Well, do you know what _happens_ today?: _Harry corrected himself, as he glanced at Nagini over his shoulder.

_:Eating and sleeping, I hope,: _Nagini replied, before tilted her head knowingly at Harry. _:And you'll be leaving.:_

_:Yes, I'll be leaving,:_ Harry sighed. The words rang heavy and finial in the room, echoing harshly from the walls.

_:Silly snakeling. The time is long past,: _Nagini said and stared at Harry from underneath the duvet. _:When snakes hatch, the first thing they do is slither.:_

_:I'm not a snake,: _Harry reminded her, perhaps more sharply than strictly necessary. Harry may sometimes forget that Nagini was a snake, but Nagini _always_ seemed to deliberately forget that Harry was a human.

_:When birds hatch, they wait that their feathers grow and then they _fly_,: _Nagini carried on, as if Harry hadn't said anything. _:You are not a snake and no one expects you to slither. You are not a bird, but no one expects you to fly. But you _are _a human and all your life you have had two legs.:_

Harry was legitimately confused by now. _:Erm. . . What do my legs have to do with anything?:_

She offered Harry an exasperated flick of her tongue. _:It's about time you put them to good use and walked.:_

For a moment all Harry could do was to stare at her. She lounged on the bed and clearly basked in the success of her little speech.

_:Nagi, that was surprisingly profound,: _Harry admitted finally, before pursed his lips thoughtfully. _:Which makes me wonder. . . Did the Dark Lord tell you to say all this?:_

Nagini fidgeted for a while, making a tangled mess of the sheets on the bed, before hissed irritably, _:I have no idea what you are talking about, snakeling.:_

_:Oh, so he did tell you to!: _Harry exclaimed, just when Nagini slithered down from the bed and started her (surprisingly fast) escape towards the door. But Harry was nothing if not persistent._ :What did you get out of the deal? Nagini? I know he promised you something for this. What was it? Are you even listening to me?:_

_:No. I am too insulted to listen to anything right now,: _was all Harry heard before the last tip of her tail disappeared through the crack of the door.

Harry shook his head and chuckled to himself, feeling lighter than he had felt in days.

…o0o…

The Manor was unnaturally silent when Harry later made his way downstairs.

It wasn't that peaceful silence which consumed the halls when the Dark Lord was away with his followers, doing whatever it was he did during the long hours of his absence. Harry tried not to think about those things too much. This was the kind of waiting silence which seemed to be holding its breath in suspense. There was a dangerous, subtle, edge to it, which made warning bells ring in Harry's mind. He had heard this kind of silence before and he knew where to find the source.

And, just like he had suspected, he did find the Dark Lord in the first floor sitting room, relaxed on one of the cushioned antique chairs and sipping calmly his first cup of morning tea. There was darker splatters of blood on his dark robes and a rusty-red smear across his left cheek, when he looked up at the approaching steps. Harry flashed a half-smile as he sat on the chair opposite to the man and called a house elf for more tea.

"Rough night?" Harry asked politely, when the steaming cup was in his hands and the house elf gone again.

"I would rather describe it as long and extremely frustrating," the Dark Lord corrected dryly.

"Nagini will complain about the blood on the carpets," Harry commented as mixed some sugar into his tea. The words earned him a mild glare, but that was all. After a few more silent minutes Harry asked quietly, "What was it then?"

"A guest I had to entertain," the Dark Lord replied and his tone told Harry that it was best to let it go. Whatever it had been, it had clearly made the Dark Lord absolutely _furious_. The restless dark magic still buzzed in the air around the man and Harry knew that he could maintain his calm façade only because he had already blown most of the steam out of his system. It was clearly one of those dungeon type of things that Harry was _never _supposed to ask about.

Usually, the Dark Lord allowed Harry to wander anywhere in the Manor from the messy attic to the well hidden wine cellar, but the dungeons had always been off-limits. All Harry had seen of the place was the large iron door that led there. He knew, vaguely, that behind the door were stairs that descended into the darkness below the house, but that was about it. Occasionally, Harry had seen people go down there and he knew that most of them had never returned. It was an intriguing place.

"I assume you have packed," the Dark Lord said and it was not a question.

Harry nodded. "Of course."

"The portkey?"

Harry patted his robe pocket, feeling the round edges of the pocket watch through the fabric.

"Good."

For a moment they sat in silence, before Harry spoke.

"Is there. . . Is there something specific you expect me to do while I'm there?" Harry asked. It's the one question that had burned in the back of his mind for months now. After all, there _had to_ be some reason why it was so important for Harry to go.

"I expect you to study and learn," the Dark Lord replied. "I want you to _see_. Memorize everything you observe. Knowledge will always serve you well."

Harry waited, but nothing else followed. "That's it?"

The Dark Lord gave him a wry glance. "Despite everything, it _is _a school. There are very few things you can actually _do_." He paused for a second, before added as an afterthought, "For now, at least."

Harry nodded, but he still felt unreasonably disappointed.

"Be wary of Dumbledore," the Dark Lord said then, and his intent eyes fell onto Harry with crushing force. "He may look like a harmless old man with all his genial smiles and follies, but he is anything but."

"You have mentioned him before," Harry remembered, trying to recall what he had heard. He couldn't remember much, just the disdainful tone the Dark Lord had always used. "He's the headmaster, isn't he?"

"That is only one of the many titles he carries," the Dark Lord told. "Do not trust him. He will relish each of your weaknesses and use them against you. He will figure you out, and when he does, he will wove a web by revealing and hiding truths you never knew you wanted to know. That web will ensnare you before you have caught on what is happening. Albus Dumbledore is a spider with a human face and in his little game you are nothing but a fly."

"His game," Harry repeated. He pointedly didn't ask what he'd be in the game _the Dark Lord_ was playing. "How do I play it then?"

The Dark Lord gave him a small twisted smirk of approval. "_You _don't."

Harry understood at once. This game was between Dumbledore and the Dark Lord. Harry would have no other part in it than to act as a pawn. He couldn't even bring himself to feel irritated, but something akin to relief flashed through him. Harry didn't care about these strange little games that the Dark Lord seemed to play as easily as he breathed. Harry didn't understand _people_ at all, while the Dark Lord pulled their invisible strings without a thought and made them dance to whatever tune he wanted them to.

"Right, how do I _not _play then?" Harry asked.

"He will search you out because he knows of your. . . _importance_ to me," the Dark Lord said and grimaced at the word. "The only thing I expect you to do, is not to get tangled into one of his webs. Don't let anything he says affect you. Don't give him anything, no information, no promises and no answers. Keep yourself distant and alert at all times. If he doesn't get through to you, he will use other people."

"So, basically I have to be paranoid about everyone?" Harry made sure and received a curt nod.

"That would be ideal, yes. And most important of all, should he try to stop you from leaving Hogwarts and his immediate vicinity _at any time_, it is essential that you use the emergency portkey. Do you understand me? Keep it _always _on your person."

Harry left it go unmentioned that the pocket clock had not left Harry's pocket ever since the Dark Lord had given it to him. He kept it with him always and when he slept it lied underneath his pillow. It felt too important to let go.

"I understand," Harry assured to the Dark Lord.

The other thing Harry now understood were the rules of this little game. It was obvious that the Dark Lord was pushing Harry towards this Albus Dumbledore, dangling him in front of the man like a bait. Just close enough to reach, but too far enough to grasp. However, why the Dark Lord was so confident his little plan would work, was beyond Harry's understanding. There was absolutely nothing about Harry worth Dumbledore's attention. And yet, the Dark Lord seemed to be certain that the man would seek Harry out. The only logical explanation was that Harry knew something about the Dark Lord that the Headmaster was desperate to know, too.

"What if. . ." Harry began hesitantly, cleared his throat, and tried again, "What if I fail? What if. . . something goes wrong?"

The Dark Lord watched him for a moment. Just looked, solemn and thoughtful, as if he was taking apart everything Harry was and wasn't and drawing conclusions that were beyond Harry's comprehension.

"If it comes to that, then I will kill you myself," the Dark Lord replied finally.

For a moment Harry didn't know how to react. He knew that the Dark Lord didn't make light of thing like these and that the man meant every word. A brief flash of nervous fear flashed through Harry, before he actually thought about it.

_If it came to that,_ the Dark Lord had said and he hadn't sounded particularly thrilled about it either. It wasn't a threat as much as it was a promise. Death would not a punishment for Harry's failure, not really. It was merely the easiest and simplest way for Harry the escape the metaphorical web of deceit which was the gravest danger Dumbledore presented. Should Harry ever feel inclined to side with Dumbledore, sympathise with him or find him reasonable, then any trust the Dark Lord could ever give Harry would be lost forever. Harry would already be dead to the man, and if it _did _come to that, then Harry was sure he wouldn't mind death all that much.

Harry cleared his throat a little awkwardly. "I. . . Alright then. Thanks, I suppose. I'll try my best not to fail."

The Dark Lord cast Harry a nearly perplexed look, before nodded. "Good."

_Good_. It was the most overwhelming compliment the Dark Lord ever gave, unless he wanted something. _Good_ was the assurance that Harry was doing just fine, the assurance that what Harry did was enough. _Good_ always told Harry that the Dark Lord was satisfied with him, and that there was nothing to worry about. Now Harry was going to Hogwarts and _months _would pass before he would be able to hear that simple '_good'_ again.

Something small shattered in Harry's chest, and all he wanted, was to crawl across the floor and curl at the Dark Lord's feet. Maybe cry a little, too. He didn't, of course. He just sat there in the stupid sitting room and drank the stupid tea, pretending that everything was fine. _Nothing_ was fine, but the Dark Lord disagreed, so Harry remained silent.

No goodbyes were exchanged, no more words wasted. And when Harry left the Manor mere hours later, the same wordless silence resided in his heart and prevailed.

…o0o…

The King's Cross station was flooded with an endless river of mindlessly rushing people, quickly moving bodies and well-aimed elbows. Some people coming, some going and more than half of them doing neither, just running in mad circles and returning to this very station times and times again, day after day. Harry stood in the middle of all it, watching the scene reluctantly impressed, and wondered just what all these people were doing here. He had never seen so many people in one place at a same time and, in all honesty, he was beginning to feel quite nauseous and distressed by now. And the longer he watched the strange outfits and the bizarre baggage they carried, more clearly it dawned to him that most of these people were _muggles_, which hardly made him feel any better.

He ducked from the way of another swinging handbag and shot a glare at the woman who didn't even notice him.

"Unbelievable," he murmured to himself, a frown marring his young face, as he pushed his carriage on move and started to make his way through the masses towards the platforms nine and ten.

The Dark Lord had beforehand warned Harry that he shouldn't bother with high expectations regarding his year mates. The warning had been followed by a long list of very unflattering adjectives describing Harry's future year mates and an order—that had been masqueraded as an advice—not to waste time trying to mingle with his house mates, but to actually spent the time wisely and _study_.

Harry had nodded obediently at the time, but since he knew very well that the man sometimes resorted to outrageous exaggerations, he hadn't made up his mind completely. Of course he had right on the spot decided to do that studying. He would read every bloody book in the library and listen intently in every class until his brain rotted, because he had made a promise and all the promises he ever made to the Dark Lord he _would _keep, no matter what. But maybe, just maybe, if the occasion presented itself he could also. . . well, satisfy his curiosity. It couldn't be _that _bad to ask a few questions and study the other students a bit.

Harry was curious whether the other children would be like him or not. What did they do with their free time? Did they have friends and parents and pets and all the sort? When did they cast their first spell? It was all very fascinating to Harry, and the only way to find out any of this, was to speak with someone of his age.

And yet, somewhere in the back of his mind a great fear was slowly raising its head. It might very well be that Harry was strange in their eyes, stupid perhaps or maybe just annoying. It could be that everyone hated him from the first moment and he would never get along with anyone. Hexes would be shot at him in the corridors and people would laugh at him behind his back. Harry would have never admitted it aloud, but the fear of the scenario was nearly paralysing. Still, he was determined to at least try.

The problem was that Harry had no idea how to approach someone. He had tired to prepare a speech to introduce himself to someone, but it all had sounded very foolish. He had considered offering his help with course work or spell practises, but it might seem too arrogant, as if he didn't believe his peers could do it themselves. Harry pondered on this, when he passed through the gate to the platform 9¾.

There were a few people standing on the platform and a polite middle-aged man helped Harry haul his luggage onto the train. After finding a nice looking compartment, Harry settled down and gazed through the window curiously, watching the slowly increasing number of people on the platform. There were a strange itchy feeling in his stomach, and it took Harry a while to realise that the feeling was nervousness. He was actually anxious to go. How strange.

It wasn't all that surprising, really. He had visited very few places in his life, seeing how the Dark Lord didn't like him leaving the Manor and Harry was rarely allowed to accompany the man when he left the Manor for whatever reason he did so. Hogwarts would be the very first place Harry had ever gone on his own and where he would stay for longer than a few quickly passing moments. Hogwarts would be his _home _for most of the year now, and quite possibly for years to come.

A careful knock at the door interrupted Harry's thoughts. When his head snapped towards the direction, he saw a boy about his age, a few inches taller and with a fiery red hair.

"Uhm. . . Can I stay here? Everywhere else is full."

Harry blinked and searched for words, for anything polite and smart. But nothing came to his mind, and he merely sat there dumbly and stared.

"I mean if it's too much trouble I can. . ." the boy waved a vague hand and his sentence faded awkwardly away.

Harry cleared his throat quickly. "No, it's alright. You may stay."

"Uh. . . Yeah, thanks," the boy scratched his neck and entered the compartment hesitantly. He set down his luggage and sat opposite of Harry, fidgeting uncomfortably. Harry did his best not to stare too obviously. A deep silence settled between them and lasted until the train hooted and slowly started to roll from the platform. The speed increased and the platform disappeared quickly, grey houses flickered by, until London was left behind and the scenery slowly faded into green fields and small rivers. After about ten minutes, the other boy's fidgeting had become nearly unbearable to Harry.

Harry cleared his throat and asked unnecessary loudly, "So, is this your first year?"

The other boy startled. "Uhm, yeah. You?"

"Same," Harry told.

A brief hesitant silence was cut short this time, when the other boy continued speaking. "I'm Ron, by the way. Ron Weasley."

Harry flashed a quick awkward smile. "I'm Harry."

Ron replied with a smile of his own, looking relieved, as if he hadn't been sure Harry _would _answer. After that it seemed like some sort of dam had broken down. "Whew, I've been so bloody nervous all day, you know," Ron said and shook his head. "I mean, I have waited to go to Hogwarts all my life, but the horror stories I've heard have been. . . well, a bit worrying. I have brothers, you see, who've been telling me all kinds of things."

Harry nodded politely, but didn't say anything, since he wasn't sure what he was _supposed _to say to that.

"There's this forest right next to the school and Charlie told me there are _werewolves_ there," Ron said and shook his head. "I probably would have believed, but Charlie has always been always fascinated by magical creatures, so he probably through it was a good thing or something." Then Ron seemed to realize that Harry wasn't contributing anything to the conversation, and bright shade of red crept across his face. "I'm babbling, aren't I? Sorry."

"It's alright," Harry assured. After giving it a quick thought, he added, "I have heard all kinds of stories, too."

Those hadn't been stories of werewolves in the forest, though. They had mostly been of hidden hallways and of portraits and ghosts who knew things of history no one else remembered anymore. Harry had heard of the forbidden books that lay forgotten and unattainable in the library. He had heard of all the things they _didn't _teach at Hogwarts and all the things they should teach differently. Harry had heard the history of Hogwarts and knew everything about its founders. The Dark Lord's Hogwarts was different from everyone else's; it wasn't what Hogwarts _seemed _to be, it was what Hogwarts hid beneath the façade of a school.

Harry didn't tell any of this to Ron, though, because _that _Hogwarts wasn't something Harry wanted to share. Instead, he let Ron do the speaking and listened all the silly little tales Ron's five brothers had told him. It was interesting, in its own way, but even Harry could conclude that most of the stories were outrageous exaggerations and outright lies.

"Percy is a right git most of the time," Ron was sighing. "He's been insufferable all summer, after they made him a Perfect. He gave me his rat, though, after he got an owl." At this Ron dug deep into his pocket and pulled out a grey old rat. "He's name is Scabbers. He's pretty much useless, just sleeps all the time."

Harry wondered how _a rat _could be useful, even if it didn't sleep all the time. Ron poked the rat a few times with his wand, but the creature didn't as much as twitch. He shrugged a bit helplessly, before an excited grin climbed his face.

"Fred and George taught me a spell to turn it yellow. Do you want to see?"

"Um, sure," Harry shrugged in reply.

Ron cleared his throat a bit, before began to wave his wand and said, "Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow, turn this stupid rat yellow!"

Nothing happened. Harry frowned. "Are you. . . sure that's a real spell?"

Ron huffed and shrugged again. "I have no clue. Might be a joke." He poked the rat again with his wand.

"Oh," Harry replied, before bit his lower lip thoughtfully. "I know one spell that's supposed to make things bigger. I could try?"

"Sure, why not," Ron answered, "It's not like Scabbers is good for anything else, is it?"

He had barely finished speaking, when the door of the compartment slid open and a short, brown-haired, girl stood in the doorway.

"Hi. You haven't happened to see a toad, have you?" she asked, her piercing eyes bouncing between them. Her eyebrows were drawn together, so that she had solemn and a slightly judgemental look on her face. She was dressed into Hogwarts robes and her wand was sticking out of one of her pockets. A thick book titled _Hogwarts: A History _rested on her other arm.

"A toad?" Ron repeated and glanced at Harry confused.

"Some boy called Neville lost his," she told them, as if the answer should have been obvious. "I suppose that's a no then." She sighed, but was suddenly distracted.

"Oh!" she gasped loudly and an excited smile took over her face. "Are you trying out spells?"

"No," Ron said simultaneously, as Harry replied, "Yes."

She blinked and glanced between them. "Um. . ."

"Yes, we are," Harry told courteously. "You're welcome to watch."

The girl bounced into the compartment and sat down, opposite to Harry. "That's nice, thank you. I'm Hermione Granger."

"Harry," Harry introduced himself, all the while feeling unreasonably intimidated by her unexpected excited energy.

"Let's see then," she said. She crossed her arms expectantly and cradled _Hogwarts: A History _into the cage of her arms like a valued treasure. Yep, definitely intimidated. This was starting to feel like an exam by now, when it was supposed to be just a little bit of practice. Harry glanced at Ron helplessly, who merely shrugged in reply.

"Right," Harry mumbled as turned to stare at the rat intently. He knew some spells, but he had never tried any of them out, so he was rather nervous and the expectant audience did nothing to clam his nerves. He pointed his wand at the rat and cast, "_Engorgio."_

Nothing happened. Harry stared at the rat and experimentally tapped it with his wand. Still nothing.

"Hmm," Hermione was saying, thoughtfully. "Are you sure it's the right spell?"

"Yes, I'm sure," Harry told firmly and tried again, with a sharper flick. "_Engorgio_!"

This time, right before their eyes, the rat swelled and became larger. It grew wider and taller and squeaked a few times in panic, before the swelling stopped. It was now a little bigger than it was before, perhaps the size of a small cat. Harry smiled to himself, happy that it had worked, and mildly worried that he could not recall the counter charm.

"Wicked," Ron breathed and stared at his now-larger pet curiously.

"Yes, quite impressive," Hermione said, too. "Have you tried the spell before?"

Harry shook his head. "No. My. . . guardian didn't let me practise spells at home. He said I managed to cause enough chaos and destruction without magic, so there was no need for further encouragement," Harry told and smiled absent-mindedly at the memory. "Actually, I wasn't sure it _would _work. It was possible that nothing would have happened, if I hadn't got it right, or that the rat had shrunk or turned invisible. In the worst case scenario, the spell could have blown the rat up to the point where it would have exploded. I'm glad it went well."

Ron stared at Harry in horror now. "Exploded?" he squeaked.

"Hm? Oh! No, don't worry. That would have been highly unlikely," Harry told reassuringly. Ron didn't look reassured. "Now, if I could just remember how to—"

His sentence was cut short as the door of the compartment slid open once more. This time no other than Draco Malfoy stepped in, with two other boys in tow. The compartment was becoming rather crowded by now.

"Harry! I've been looking for you all over the train," he huffed without as much as a greeting, and let himself slump on the seat next to Harry. "I was sure you had somehow managed to miss the train."

"Well, here I am," Harry stated the obvious.

Draco gave him a crushing glare and opened his mouth for an undoubtedly sarcastic reply, but fell suddenly silent as he took notice on Harry's two companions. His eyes narrowed into slits as he repeated Harry's words almost absently, "Yes, here you are." He stared at Ron and Hermione for a moment, intent and curious, before seemed to shake himself out of his stupor.

"I don't believe we have met. I'm Draco Malfoy," he told as gave a strange crooked smile towards Ron and Hermione and something about that smile made Harry feel unreasonably nervous. Draco nodded towards his two friends who had tagged along with him. "And these are Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle."

Harry didn't miss how Ron's eyes now narrowed ever so slightly, suspiciously, as he glanced between Draco and his friends. Something seemed to be going on, but Harry couldn't figure out what it was. To his slight relief, Hermione looked equally confused by the raising tension in the compartment.

Draco turned to Ron with a curiously challenging look in his grey eyes. "And you?"

"I'm, um, Ron Weasley," Ron told awkwardly and the smirk that climbed onto Draco's face them promised nothing good.

"Yes, I can _see _that," Draco replied and gave Ron's worn robes a pointed look. Ron flushed bright shade of red, which clashed horribly with his red hair, and his mouth twisted into and ugly grimace. Draco turned to Hermione with a polite fake smile on his face. "And you might be?"

Harmione raised her chin defiantly, before replied, "Hermione Granger."

Draco's mouth thinned into a narrow line, while his grey eyes raked over the people in the compartment. He was clearly displeased with what he saw.

"Harry, I need a word. _Now_," Draco snarled in low tone, eyes flashing dangerously, as he grasped Harry by the collar of his robes and hauled him out of the compartment. Harry didn't manage a word in protest, when Draco was already at him, anger and confusion visibly pouring out of him. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, not understanding why the Malfoy heir was suddenly at his throat like this. He had thought they had gotten along alright. Kind of.

"Didn't you hear her? _Granger_. It's obviously a muggle name! She's a mudblood and _proud _of it. Otherwise she wouldn't declare it like that in civilized company," Draco told and looked about ready to toss a few hexes at Harry for being so dim.

"Oh, that."

"Yes, _that_. And do you know who that ginger is? A Weasley, that's who he is. They are one of the old families, sure, but they have fallen a long way. They're probably trying to take over Britain by breeding like rabbits, and the whole lot of them are _blood traitors_," Draco spit the last words out, as if he thought blood traitors were even worse than muggleborns. "They think that the likes of Granger actually have a _right_ to be here among the magical folk. It's sickening. At least they haven't sunk so low as to actually _mix _with them, but I suppose that's only a matter of time."

Draco actually looks honestly nauseous now, as if merely speaking of all this is enough to make him sick.

I don't see what it matters," Harry confessed. "They are here _now,_ and who am I to tell them whether or not they should be accepted into Hogwarts."

"You don't. . . For Salazar's sake! This isn't about some petty political riff anymore! There's an open civil _war _out there and you will eventually have to pick a side, if you want to live through it," Draco snarled, his tone strangely tight and almost nervous. "You can't be seen consorting with the likes of _them_, if you ever wish to side with. . .well, Him."

Draco didn't have to clarify who he meant. It was so painfully obvious that Harry very nearly flinched at the accusing words. Of course, Harry knew the Dark Lord's stance on muggles and muggleborns. Harry had all his life heard how muggles were inferior to wizards and witched and how they were the root of all evil. Muggleborns, according to the Dark Lord, were slowly wearing on the still prevailing wizarding traditions and destroying the culture of the society from inside out. Harry could almost hear the echo of the Dark Lord's voice within Draco's words.

Harry heaved a deep breath to steady himself, and looked Draco straight into the eye with a cool look on his face. "Did you see _their_ expressions, though" Harry said, nodding back towards the compartment where Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger still waited. "Apparently, I can't be seen consorting with the likes of _you _either, if I decide to side with them instead."

Draco flinched nearly violently at that, eyes flying wide and jaw hanging open. "You can't possibly mean. . .! Side with _them_? Just saying things like could be enough to get you killed!"

Harry sighed and run a frustrated hand through his hair. "I wasn't saying that. I just mean. . ." Harry started, but realized soon that he didn't really know what he meant.

Draco gave him the last despairing look and shook his head. "I don't even want to know what you meant," he said, before continued more seriously. "I can't believe I'm about to say this, but just. . . watch out. You're so bloody daft, that you're going to step on many wrong toes, if you don't be careful."

"I'm not. . ." Harry begun, but a look from Draco silenced him.

"Yes, you are," the Malfoy heir told him firmly. Since he didn't sound angry anymore, and only mildly frustrated, Harry decided not to argue.

Harry offered a small lopsided smile as a peace-offering. "Fine. Whatever you say."

When they re-entered the compartment, Draco gave both Hermione and Ron a rather impressive disdainful glare. Then his eyes strayed upon the engorged rat and he grimaced. He pulled out his wand, pointed it at the creature and cast quickly and easily, while ignoring Ron's protesting squeak.

"_Reducio_," he mumbled and the rat shrunk back to its original size in a blink of an eye. He then shot a withering look at Ron and Hermione and sneered, "It has been a _pleasure_, truly, but the sudden urge to be anywhere else is overwhelming." Harry just managed to open his mouth to form a protest, when Draco had already swirled around and disappeared with a curt, "Crabbe, Goyle, let's go."

Ron stared open-mouthed after them, before snarled our an irritated, "What a prat!" He reached over and cradled the now regular sized rat in his palms, as if checking for any injuries.

Harry deemed it wiser not to respond and glanced over at Hermione who was sitting on her seat stiffly, her back straight and lips thinned into tight line.

"Are you—" Harry begun, but didn't make it to the end.

"I'm _fine_," Hermione bit out and stood up swiftly. "But I really don't have time for this. I promised to help Neville find his toad and we're almost at Hogwarts. There isn't much time, so if you don't mind I _really _have to go."

Before Harry or Ron had enough time to respond in any way, she had left the compartment, her curls bouncing and a frantic spring to her steps. Harry turned to give Ron a confused frown which Ron returned in the form of a cold glance.

"While you were gone with. . . your _friend_," Ron said and contempt was clear in the tone. "The two gits had a few things to say about her."

"You mean. . ." Harry frowned as tried to remember their names, "Crabbe and Goyle?"

"Well, _yeah_," Ron replied, as if it was obvious. "It's not really much of a surprise that the _likes of them_ would. . ." He didn't finish with the sentence, but shook his head. Then Ron stared at Harry more intently than any time before, and his eyes narrowed suspiciously, before he added more silently, "I don't want to. . . accuse you of anything, but if I were you, I'd choose my friends more carefully."

"We are hardly friends," Harry replied absently, and silently admitted to himself that he wasn't entirely sure whether he spoke of Ron or Draco.

Rest of the journey passed mostly in silence, as neither of them knew what to say after all that.

…o0o…

At the Hogsmeade station, a giant of a man welcomed them; twice as high as anyone Harry knew and four times as wide. He called out for all the first years with low and booming voice, waving a large lantern in his other hand. He introduced himself as Rubeus Hagrid, the Keeper of the Keys and Grounds of Hogwarts. It was his loud voice and huge, hulking, figure led the heard of scared and excited first years down to the lake shore and instructed:

"Get into the boats. No more than four into each!"

"You're coming with me," Draco informed Harry curtly, as grabbed his arm and dragged him over to one of the boats. Harry didn't bother with protests.

The boats floated in neat formation over the glass-like surface of the lake. Harry leaned to peer over the edge of the boat into the dark depths, but saw nothing. He had read that there were all kinds of things in the lake. Merfolk and the likes, even a giant squid. Harry tried to calculate in his head how quickly a giant squid could swallow a boatful of first year students, and whether or not Hagrid would have enough time to save them. Probably not, Harry decided, and tried to think about anything else.

A sudden loud gasp nearby, made Harry look up curiously. What he saw then, made a quiet wheeze escape his lips, too, as he stared up along with every one of his year mates.

The Hogwarts castle loomed over them. Its walls and towers reached majestically towards the sky and thousands of windows cast light into the darkness of the evening. The silhouette and the sea of lights reflected on the surface of the lake, doubling the effect and making it all that much remarkable. Harry suddenly understood why they had been taken to the castle this route and not by the carriages the other students had used. It was an impressive sight, even Harry had to admit, as he stared up in silent awe.

The castle was just as impressive inside. High ceilings and arches, statues in every corner and walls crammed with portraits of all the important people. Windows were high and many of them decorated with pictures of unicorns, dragons and the merfolk. The staircases were long and wide, and some of them moved on their own, some led to nowhere and some of them seemed to go everywhere. It was very complex and fascinating at once, but this time they didn't have much time to admire it all.

Hagrid led them in the castle to meet a strict looking elderly woman. Professor McGonagall was her name, apparently, and she taught Transformation. The name was distantly familiar and Harry recalled seeing it branded on the cover of one of the books they had in the Manor library. It had been a complicated book and Harry had quickly given up on it after opening it for the first time. Still, it was nice to receive a confirmation that there was at least a one competent teacher in the whole school.

She gave them quick instructions on what to do and what to expect, while her sharp eyes swept them over. She had an air of no-nonsense to her and Harry decided not to get on her wrong side.

"Bill always said he was terrified of her," Ron whispered to him when McGonagall ordered them to form a line and began to march them towards the Great Hall. Harry suspected that anyone would be terrified of Professor McGonagall. He wondered if she had taught the Dark Lord, too.

The sorting ceremony itself was a very simple process.

A small stool and an old wrinkly hat were brought into the Hall. Professor McGaongall placed the hat down on the stool, and before Harry had time to become too confused by it, the hat burst out singing. It was a silly little piece with ridiculous—and rhyming—lyrics, which it described all the houses and the traits they sought for. When the Hat made it to the end of its song, the whole Hall applauded and cheered loudly, as the Hat bowed low. Harry found himself grinning widely, mostly out of disbelief.

"Are they serious?" he mumbled to no one in particular. Apparently all they had to do was try the Sorting Hat on and it would tell them in which house they belonged. It was a _hat_, after all, so Harry had all the reason in the world to be mildly alarmed by this. But then again, Harry had come across other magical items which could actually do amazing things on their own.

The sorting proceeded as Professor McGonagall called them out one by one. Harry wasn't particularly interested in the sorting, so he let his attention wander. He was particularly fascinated by the ceiling of the Hall which looked like a night sky arching over them. It was mosty cloudy, but if Harry squinted, he could catch the pale light of a few twinkling stars here and there. It was very beautiful.

What confused Harry, though, was the fact that there were far fewer students than what Harry had expected. The four house tables were nowhere near full and the number of the first year students wasn't particularly remarkable either. It was very strange, now that Harry thought about it.

After all, Hogwarts _was_ the only school of magic in Britain, so most of the young witches and wizards ended up studying there. Of course some families preferred home schooling over enrolling their children, but those cases were few and scarce. Hogwarts wasn't _just _a school, but it also connected the generations of magical folk. It was the very basis of networking in the wizarding world. The people you met at Hogwarts, the friends and enemies you made, would be same after you left the safety of these stony walls. The students here would one day be aurors, ministers and ministry officials. They would be merchants, vendors, famous Quidditch players and magical inventors. The wizarding world was a little carousel that went around and around generation after another. The more people you got to know _now_, the more advantage you would have in the future.

Harry's gaze wandered to the teachers' table. Witches and wizards of vastly varying ages sat there and watched over the sorting solemnly. None of them looked particularly familiar, except the old man who sat in the middle. A long grey hair and beard of the same shade, golden half-moon spectacles and a small genial smile. The man could hardly be anyone else than the headmaster Dumbledore. What caught Harry's attention, however, was not the man's outrageously coloured robes, or the slight hum of magic he emitted, or even the piercing blue eyes that seemed to see through everything. No, it was the fact that the man was _old_, far older than what Harry had imagined. He looked _ancient_. And not just ancient, but fragile, too, the way age made people seem weak and vulnerable.

Was _this_ the amazing Albus Dumbledore? A stiff breeze of wind would probably knock him over, so _surely _the Dark Lord could take him apart with less than that.

Harry quickly turned his astonished stare away, before the headmaster could catch him staring. To push his confusion to side, Harry focused on the sorting and watched how new students one by one went to their new houses. He huffed a small involuntary laugh, when Draco Malfoy was sorted into Slytherin before the Sorting Hat had proberly touched his head.

A pale, shaking, student after another went into their assigned houses with relieved smiles and followed by loud cheering. When McGonagall started to slowly but surely approach Harry's own name, small nervous tingle started in his stomach. He wasn't _worried_, per se, but mild anxiety was taking over. After all, Harry didn't know what _exactly _the Hat did. What if it asked questions he was supposed to know the answers to? Harry tried to recall the twelve uses of dragon's blood, but could only remember three.

Parkinson, Patil, Patil, and then, "Potter, Harry!"

Harry draw a breath and walked up to the stool, where he sat down and the Sorting Hat was placed on his head. The last thing Harry saw, before the edge of the hat fell over his eyes, was the grave expression of Headmaster Albus Dumbledore.

_A spider with a human face, _Harry thought and the description matched poorly with the wrinkly old man seated at the teachers' table.

"My, quite the start, Mr. Potter," a voice said in Harry's ears and Harry realized with a startle that the hat was addressing him directly. "And a most adept evaluation of character. Though, I doubt the headmaster would appreciate it quite as much as I do."

"Uhm, sorry?" Harry offered hesitantly.

The Hat barely heard him, humming thoughtful, as it mulled through Harry's mind. Harry could feel its presence somewhere in the labyrinth of his thoughts and memories, but it was subtle and barely notable. Nothing like the Dark Lord's way of rummaging through his mind like an exceptionally vicious whirlwind.

"Such a fascinating mind you have, Mr. Potter," the Hat told delightedly. "It has been years, since I have seen anything quite like this."

Harry didn't interrupt, since anything that he could have said was already there in his head for the Hat to read.

"Extraordinary sharpness of mind and willingness to learn. Your skills would not go to waste in Ravenclaw. But there is a great deal of ambition here, as well. You thirst to prove just what you're capable of and there is very little that could stop you on your way to greatness. In Slytherin you would be in alike company. Difficult, difficult. . . There's also bravery fit for any Gryffindor and it seems to be right in your blood in the most fierce ways imaginable! And rashness, too. You tend to act before you think, don't you, Mr. Potter?" the Hat asked and sounded almost excited, as it dug deeper into Harry's mind.

It had been quite a while now, and Harry could hear silent confused murmur spreading in the Great Hall. He wondered how long they would let him sit here, before McGonagall would snatch the Hat from his head and tell him that there had clearly been a mistake.

"What is _this_, then? You have an extremely loyal heart," the Hat mumbled with obvious surprise. "Oh, yes. You possess almost merciless loyalty, most of which is already given. There is not much you wouldn't do for people you care about, is there? A trait of a true Hufflepuff. This certainly is most difficult. Just where should I put you?"

"Erm, anywhere is fine, really," Harry told the Hat, hoping that it would speed up the process some.

"Are you sure, Mr. Potter?"

"I, well, I don't know! It's your job to sort me, isn't it?"

"You are correct, indeed, Mr. Potter. Better then be. . . a GRYFFINDOR!"

"Excuse me?" Harry asked aloud, just as one of the tables in the Hall began to cheer. The Hat was snatched from his head, and the Deputy Headmistress McGonagall smiled thinly down at Harry.

"Welcome to the house, Mr. Potter," she said silently and sounded almost sad. Harry offered a quick nod, hopped down from the stool and hurried to the Gryffindor table. He sat down and sighed, whilst looked around his new housemates with a small smile spreading onto his face. A few of the Gryffindor students offered their quick welcomes, before returned to follow the sorting.

Harry himself sat there suffering a mild out-of-body experience. A Gryffindor. He wasn't quite sure what to think of that. He hadn't give much thought to where he would be sorted, but somehow he didn't feel very brave or daring. This very moment he wanted to be _at home _rather than here. That was hardly bravery. Harry was starting to seriously doubt whether the old Hat had any clue what it was doing.

When later the Hat sorted Ron Weasley into Gryffindor, too, Harry politely applauded along with everyone else.

The feast that followed the sorting ceremony was overwhelming. The food was amazing and plentiful. There were so many dishes that Harry had never tasted before the he struggled to decide what to try. There were surprisingly interesting conversations going on around him, about the lessons and Professors and house ghosts, and Harry didn't have enough ears to hear all of it. He introduced himself to another Gryffindor first year student, Neville Longbottom, and it turned out that he was the very Neville whose toad had been missing on the train.

It was unexpectedly nice and Harry found himself relaxing a bit. This was _his _house now and these people were the one he'd live and study with for the rest of his school years. And it was alright, Harry realised with a small startle. Perhaps everything _would _be fine, eventually, once he got used to the change.

Harry let his gaze absently wander towards the teachers' table again. He glanced at Headmaster Dumbledore again. The man was conversing with Professor McGonagall, who sat on his right, and waved his hands towards the rest of the Hall with an elated smile on his face. _The spider_, Harry reminded himself. He shouldn't let the façade fool himself, the Dark Lord had warned him about that.

Harry was studying the other Professors curiously, when his eyes directly connected with a pair of dark and piercing ones. A man with a crooked nose and slimy black hair was staring at him intently and unwaveringly. He pretended to listen to the man sitting next to him, but Harry got the uncomfortable feeling that all the man's attention was crushing on _Harry_. It was not a nice look the man was giving him, a narrow eyed and cold stare that bordered on suspicious.

Harry quickly turned his gaze away.

"Excuse me?" he turned to the red-haired Perfect—who could be no one else than Ron's brother Percy—sitting next to him. "Who is that Professor with black hair? Sitting over there?"

Percy glanced into the direction and nodded understandingly.

"Ah, that would be Professor Snape. Severus Snape is his whole name," Percy told. "He's a brilliant Professor, knows what he's talking about, but. . . Well, let's say that he's not the most pleasant one."

Harry frowned and glanced at Professor Snape again, but he was not looking towards the Gryffindor table any more.

Percy misinterpreted the look and assured, "Not to worry. If you study hard in his class and do the work you're assigned he will mostly ignore you."

Harry nodded. "I'll make sure to do just that."

Harry couldn't quite pin-point what it was, but something about this Professor Snape bothered him. Even when he returned to his dinner, he couldn't quite shake the feeling away.

…o0o…

When Harry finally got to his dorm after the feast, the first thing he did was write a short letter.

_Hi,  
The Hat had some trouble deciding, but sorted me into Gryffindor in the end. I'm not yet sure how I feel about that. The other students seem alright, though I haven't been acquainted with many of them yet. I met Draco Malfoy again. He's a bit irritating, but tolerable. And I saw the Spider at the Welcoming feast. He smiles too much and sounds half mad. There was also someone called Snape. He's the Potions Professor and a right creep. Should I worry about him?  
Sincerely,  
Harry_

He shared the dorm with four other Gryffindor boys, and throughout the night Harry could hear them toss and turn in their beds. The room smelled strange and it felt foreign. Nothing here reminded Harry of home and he felt out of place and order. He stayed awake long into the night, staring into the darkness and listening to the unfamiliar sounds of life.

When he finally slept, he dreamt of flies and spiders.

…o0o…

Three days later along the morning post Harry received a short note that read:

_Your Gryffindor status is hardly that surprising. Snape is not a threat, but do not trust him. Watch out for the Spider; he will make his move eventually._

Three curt clauses and no signature, that was all it really was. Harry was glad that the Dark Lord had bothered to reply, but it was slightly disappointing. With a small sigh, Harry slipped the note into his robe pocket, where it rested alongside the silver pocket watch.

Enclosed in that one pocket was all the assurance he had that the Dark Lord actually cared at least a little.

…o0o…

_- tbc -_

…o0o…


	5. Chapter 4

Here it is, finally! Enormous thanks to all my readers again for the support you have shown in your reviews, alerts and favs.

As a side note: this story is now posted on Archive of Our Own, too. Link can be found on my profile, if you'd prefer that site.

…o0o…

**I**n **D**eath, **S**tandby

**Chapter IV**

_The Greyscale World_

…o0o…

At the respectable age of three, Harry had learned about anger.

It had been mostly by an accident, things like these always were.

It had all happened on a very unremarkable autumn night. The strange man Harry lived with had left earlier that day, and Harry had not seen him since. He hadn't particularly missed him, because back then, both Harry and the man with red eyes had carefully kept their distance from each other.

At the time Harry hadn't really even known who the man even _was_, except that he lived at the Manor, too, and that Nagini—and the other snakes, who dropped by when they wished and left when they felt they should—respected him greatly. Harry's snakish nature had told him to do so, too, and when ever—rarely—he had run into the man in the Halls of the manor, they had exchanged wary looks and Harry had always hissed his tentative greeting. Sometimes the man had bossed Harry around a bit, told him to do and not to do things, but since he had always done that with the other snakes, too, Harry hadn't considered it particularly strange. Although, the whole walking thing had been mildly alarming from the start, but after awhile Harry had gotten used to the idea, so he hadn't bothered holding grudges against the man.

They had been virtually strangers, Harry and this strange man with red eyes, until that night when it all had changed.

Harry had been sleeping on the carpet in front of the dining hall fireplace, when sudden loud ruckus, banging and cursing and screaming, had startled him awake sometime around midnight.

He had laid there for a few passing minutes, listening to the increasing screams, before his blasted curiosity had once again gotten better of him. Harry had slowly got up and had let the sounds guide him through the dark Manor. He had made his way to the entry hall, where darkness had been unnaturally think and the stench of blood strong. Sometime during Harry's journey through the nightly halls, the screams had faded into silent whimpers, but in the silence they were almost as loud as the screams before.

The man with red eyes had stood in the middle of the hall, shaking with barely contained anger, and at his feet had lied a man who Harry had never seen before. The man had been mostly motionless, as he had lied in a puddle of him own blood and sobbed silently. There might have been words, hidden in those whimpers, but Harry couldn't quite make them out. Cautiously, Harry had taken seat on one of the stairs and had watched on.

"I am _disappointed_, Quirrell," the man with red eyes had said, and no trace of his fury was present in his level voice, which had been curious, especially when his whole body had been practically shaking with it. "I asked for information, and you have nothing but rumours and feeble excuses to offer. I asked for the Stone, and you bring me _nothing _at all."

The man, this Quirrell, had wheezed and coughed a few times, before words had passed reluctantly through his lips, "My lord. . . I tried. . . but Flamel, he. . . knew. . ."

"Did he now?" the man with red eyes had mocked. "How could he _know_, when the only one who knew I wished to acquire the Stone was _you_, Quirrell? It does make me wonder."

"My lord. . . please. . . I will. . ."

"_Silencio. _What you would or wouldn't do, doesn't matter anymore. The Stone has been destroyed, and Flamel is dying," the man with red eyes had said. "You have failed spectacularly, and I do not feel very forgiving tonight."

Then the man with red eyes had cast a curse Harry had not been familiar with. With a repulsed fascination, Harry had watched from his spot how the all Quirrell's joints had begun to twist into unnatural angles, accompanied with loud cracking and crunching noises. First his fingers, then his knees and ankles and elbows and wrists.

_:How peculiar_,_: _a familiar voice had hissed from Harry's left, and he had glanced at Nagini quickly from the corner of his eye.

_:Yes, it is,: _he had replied, and together they had watched and listened to the screams that had returned tenfold. When there had been nothing left to dislocate, the spell had faded on its own, and as the screams had faded, the too-deep silence had returned and gradually settled to fill the void left behind.

_:You should not linger here, Snakeling,: _Nagini had said then, strange note entering her hisses.

_:I'm not afraid. It's fascinating,: _Harry had argued, before it had occurred to him that perhaps that hadn't been Nagini's point. But then it was too late already. The quiet exchange had reached the ears of the man with red eyes, and he had turned to stare through the darkness directly at Harry with a strange, nearly gleeful, look on his face.

"Come here, child," he had ordered.

Harry hadn't dared to move.

_:Come here now!:_

Harry had stood up and had reluctantly crossed the room to the man with red eyes.

The bettered, quietly crying, man on the floor had let out a wail, when Harry has stepped past. It had been a distraught noise that had sent cold shivers running down Harry's spine.

"Be quiet, you swine," the man with red eyes had snapped out, his voice crisp and sharp, like the spell he had used to tear the man apart. Then he had floated—there really was not other word to describe the way he moved in the state he was in—across the floor to Harry, who had been standing mere metres away, and crouched next to him, not quite touching, but definitely close enough for Harry to smell the intruding, scorched, stench of fiery magic that the man had emitted.

:_You see this, child?:_ the man with red eyes had asked in the tongue of snakes, and his voice lowered close to feverish whisper. _:Do you see?:_

Harry hadn't been sure what he was supposed to be seeing, but had nodded weakly anyway.

"He deserves death_,"_ were the next feverish words, but Harry barely grasped their meaning, since the man had once again switched to the human language he preferred. Quirrell had moaned pathetically at the words; it might have been a protest, it might have been a plea.

_:And I shall grant it to him. So, tell me, child, how should he die?: _the man with red eyes had asked, and something had frozen solid in Harry's chest.

_:I. . .what. . .:_

_:How should he die?:_ the man had repeated his question, and his cool breath had fanned across Harry's cheek. _:Surprise me.:_

_Surprise him_, Harry had wondered, not quite able to understand the meaning behind the words. Surprise him how? What he wanted? Death, yes, that much had been obvious, but all the whys and hows had been missing. Harry understood, vaguely, that should he fail to surprise the man, the anger, which had been dancing thick around him, would next be directed at him.

So, Harry had turned to look at dying man. But then again, perhaps he hadn't been dying at that point, not really. In a sense, Quirrell had been dead the moment when the man with red eyes had first turned his burning, destructive, anger towards him. Harry had wondered whether the man himself knew this or not. From the harsh breathing and the silence pained moaning, Harry had quickly judged that at that point he was well beyond caring about the difference between dead and dying.

A cold, long-fingered, hand had curled around Harry's neck, not quite tight enough to strangle, but just enough to warn. One of those spidery fingers had cut slowly across Harry's throat, the fingernail scraping against the skin.

_:How should he die?:_ It had not been a question anymore, for sometime during the stretching silence impatience had turned it into an order.

_:You could. . . summon his heart?:_ Harry had suggested, his words quiet and tentative, terrified out of his mind, but strangely flattered for this attention he was unexpectedly receiving.

For a brief moment absolute silence and stillness had prevailed, and for that moment Harry had felt fear more intimately than he had never experienced it before. But the moment had passed quickly, and the cool hand, which had been resting on Harry's throat, had retreated in an almost caressing, careful, motion, and the man with red eyes had straightened slowly. Harry had not been sure what to think, when he had cautiously peered upwards to catch the expression on the man's face. It had been an odd mixture of mild wonder and unconscious eagerness.

Then the man with red eyes had let out a half-manic laughter, before he had raised his wand and cast the spell.

Harry had remained where he was, watching how the man on the floor had let out pained scream when the spell took effect, and how something dark red and sticky had started ooze through the skin of his chest, staining the purple robes he was wearing. The screaming had quickly subsided, as life left the man along with his mangled, squashed, heart. In the eerie silence that had followed, the man with red eyes had laid one hand on Harry's scrawny shoulder and had nodded his acceptance; Harry had done well.

After that, Harry had decided to never let go of that approval.

…o0o…

But the hidden lesson Harry that had learned that day, was that true anger was terrifying only for a moment. Once it was gone, it faded into a mere memory, which time would eventually eat away, and it would then lay forever forgotten. Anger was vicious and burned everything on it's way—it left behind nothing but destruction and regret—but nothing could burn so bright for long. The Dark Lord was very good at anger, he had mastered it to near perfection, in fact, but there was still something he was even better at: hatred.

Hatred was different from anger. In fact, Hatred was _a form_ of anger which had merely laid still for a very long time, brewing and waiting and cooling down. Hatred was an unforgiving, soul-devouring, power with all the patience and determination that anger lacked. Hatred could wait and bide its time, whereas anger was instant and uncontrollable in its impatience. While anger was destructive, hatred was constructive. One could not execute no vengeance, no vendetta, without hatred, because hate was the base things like that were build upon.

Harry knew—though, he'd never voice this knowledge—that the Dark Lord was consumed by hatred. His anger was momentary and explosive, but beneath it laid a thick layer of cold, unadulterated, hate. Harry wasn't sure where that hate came form, or whether it was due, but he knew it was there. It was so deeply part of the Dark Lord that it was sometimes impossible to tell where the sensible man in him ended and the hatred towards everything began. For a very long time, Harry had believed that _no one _could hate with the same cold intensity that the Dark Lord did.

However, Harry realised his mistake after less than ten minutes into his first Potion class. The Dark Lord had very probably met his match in one Severus Snape.

Hate rang sharp in every word Professor Snape spoke, and shined through every deed he did. It was a dark aura around him that made people unconsciously wary of him. But after long and carefully observation, Harry came to the conclusion that most of all Snape hated himself. The students he disliked, yes, and he didn't seem particularly keen of his job either, but the deep, ugly, self-loathing overshadowed all those petty feelings of dislike.

And yet, even Snape's dislike was razor-sharp and painful, as he cut into his first year students with harsh words and cruel sneers. It soon became obvious, that his classes would be excruciating torture to anyone, who was not a Slytherin, or a prodigy when it came to potions. For one reason or another, he seemed to take special pleasure in tearing into Gryffindors. From Longbottom he asked a series of questions a fourth year would have struggled to answer; at Granger he snarled for her obvious, over-flowing, enthusiasm; Patil he gifted with such a spectacular glare, accompanied with a sneer, that she seemed to make a silent vow never to attend Potion classes again.

But when it came to Harry, he merely shot one sharp look at him, weighing and calculating, before seemed to ignore him altogether for the rest of the class. Harry hadn't been sure what to make of it, but accepted it with relief, nonetheless.

As dislikeable as Snape was, Harry couldn't bring himself to hate the man. It would have been waste of time, and not least because Snape would always hate himself more than anyone else could. Still, Harry knew that he'd have no trouble following the Dark Lord's advice of not trusting the man a single bit.

Somehow, Potions were still one of the most likable classes Harry had, along with Transformation. Charms class was a bit boring, despite fact that Professor Flitwick was pleasant and obviously enjoyed the subject he was teaching, and Herbology was much the same way. Defence against Dark Arts was utter waste of time, since it was taught by a young woman who had recently graduated. Apparently Professor Belby had applied to become an Auror, but had not been accepted, so she had returned to teach at Hogwarts for the time being. There was really nothing wrong with her, except that she was obviously shy and uncertain about whether she was doing alright or not. Most of the classes went by as she stumbled over her words and tried to make her students sit still and shut up. Only class that was even more trying to sit through was History of Magic, with its droning and painfully boring Professor Binns, who had actually been dead for Merlin knows how long. Harry quickly found himself appreciating Professors like Snape and McGonagall, who despite being strict and demanding, were at least experienced.

All in all, life at Hogwarts wasn't _quite _as bad as Harry had feared it would be. The classes were something to occupy his time, most students were almost pleasant, and Hogwarts' library was amazing. So, yes, Harry could almost get used to this, if he'd just get over the uncomfortably gnawing homesickness he was suffering in his weakest moments.

…o0o…

When Halloween rolled around at the end of October, the atmosphere at Hogwarts faced a dramatic shift.

The usual dullness was replaced with eager anticipation and the classes seemed to pass in much more relaxed way. Even Professor Snape seemed to find less enjoyment in jeering at his pupils and Harry could almost swear he heard the ever-so-strict Professor McGonagall humming some silly little tune under her breath during her Transformation class. It was very bizarre, but oddly nice at the same time.

Harry wasn't entirely sure what to expect. He had always known that Halloween, or Samhain, or whatever you wanted to call it, was an important part of wizarding culture. Or at least it was _supposed _to be an important part, but the Dark Lord had never felt any need to celebrate it.

"Useless waste of time", he had said once. "If I wanted to appreciate the dead, I would go out and make more corpses. Celebrating it any other way is ridiculous."

It had made sense, kind of, so Harry had not argued, but the careful curiosity had remained.

After all, it was a feast to celebrate _the dead_. Harry had never quite understood death. Or rather, he understood death, but he didn't understand the way people reacted to it. One moment a person was here and then, poof, they weren't anymore. It was simple and very neat, perfectly orderly and logical. But the people who were left behind would mourn, they would grieve and miss, as if it would help. And most of all they would worry about their own death, fear it and wait for it with dread.

That fear of death seemed to overshadow everything. It stalked people, never too close but never very far either. It clouded judgment and guided decisions and choices. People would do _anything _to escape their set-in-stone fate, do anything to _live_.

So, when the October 31st turned evening, Harry found himself mildly disappointed that there was nothing visibly special about the feast that had been arranged in the Great Hall. Of course, the amount of food was whopping, but so it always seemed to be during the mealtimes at Hogwarts. Pumpkin lanterns floated high above the tables and thousands of candles amidst of them.

It looked nice, Harry judged finally, with a small sigh, and accepted that there would be no mysterious rituals and Samhain covens. Besides, a little change to the daily routines was warmly welcome, even if it was just a feast where everyone could stuff their faces with sweets to the point of nausea.

Or at least Harry could and would do so. He was not ashamed to admit that sweets were turning out to be one of his greatest weaknesses. He especially enjoyed chocolate, which he had never had before coming to Hogwarts.

As Harry loaded more chocolate pudding on his plate, a conversation caught his ear.

"My Gran always took me to visit Grandpa's grave at Halloween," Neville was saying, a bit wistful look on his face. "Probably would have gone this year, too, if I had been there."

"Do you want to know what muggle kids do for Halloween?" Dean Thomas asked, a wide grin taking over his face. "They dress up in costumes and go from door to door asking for sweets."

"What does that have to do with the dead?" Ron asked and shook his head. "I'll never understand muggles. Mom probably would have made us visit family members on graveyard, too, but we have so bloody many relatives there, too, that it would have taken all night. So, we usually just have a dinner, and our aunt makes half-arsed predictions about future. Who's gonna die next, and other cheerful stuff like that."

"Don't forget the horror stories, Ronnie," one of Ron's twin brothers cut in with a cheeky grin.

"Yeah, I remember how you freaked out that one time when. . ." the other twin began, but Ron was quick to interrupt.

"Shut up, you two!"

The brotherly bickering got a comfortable round of laughter out of the Gryffindors, and Harry found himself smiling along. His smile quickly died down, when the conversation gained a more serious tone.

"Lately there has been nothing but horror stories about You-Know-Who," Ron said with a small sigh. "And the worst part is that no one even has to make those stories up."

Seamus tried to fix on a smile, but ended up with some sort of a wonky grimace. "Nah, a few years from now those will be horror stories about visiting his grave at Halloween."

A cold hand crushed at Harry's heart. He quickly shoved a spoonful of pudding into his mouth to stop himself from saying anything. It cheered him up a bit.

"Some say he's immortal," Neville supplied, silently, almost as if afraid to pronounce the words too loudly.

"Pfft, it's probably a load of tripe," Seamus Finnigan huffed then, but even he sounded unsure "Part of his cult leader image, you know."

Suddenly, Harry _really _didn't want to hear a word more, and he let himself be distracted by Professor Flitwick, who just then stepped through the doors of the Great Hall. It wasn't unusual to arrive late, but what caught Harry's attention was the grim, worried, look on the Professor's face. Flitwick hurried through the hall to the staff table, where he stopped to exchange quick, silent, words with the Headmaster.

Harry lowered his eyes back to his dinner and glared at his pudding.

_Immortal_, the word rang unbidden through Harry's mind, even though he tried to push it away. It did sound better than _dead _for sure, especially when speaking about the Dark Lord, who Harry couldn't imagine living without, but still, something about it bothered Harry greatly. If only he had known what it was.

Harry let his eyes wander back to the staff table, just when Flitwick took his seat. Headmaster Dumbledore, however, stood up and gave a significant look to the Deputy and the Potion Master, before left the Great Hall quickly and unannounced through a small door at the side. Harry watched curiously how Professors Snape and McGonagall exchanged a look. Something was clearly going on.

But since it was none of Harry's business, he was easily distracted by Ron's "Harry, pass me the sausages, would you," and returned to his dinner without giving another thought to Albus Dumbledore's sudden departure.

…o0o…

The next morning, when Harry arrived to Great Hall for breakfast along with Ron, it was obvious that something was amiss. The usual morning sleepiness and the typical murmur were replaced by anxious buzz. Many students were wearing solemn expressions and a few were openly weeping.

The Weasley twins sat at the Gryffindor table with ashen faces clutching a newspaper, while Percy Weasley sat opposite to them with a somewhat hopeless look on his face. Ron hurried his steps until Harry almost had to run to keep up.

"What is it?" Ron asked immediately when he reached his brothers and slipped onto the bench next to Percy. His tone was tense and slightly worried. Percy shook his head wordlessly in reply and the frown on Ron's face deepened.

Harry himself didn't dare to say anything, so he sat next to Ron in silence and reached for toast and jam.

After a few minutes the twins reached the end of whatever article they had been reading, and looked over the paper at Percy.

"But—" one of them began, but didn't finish.

"How's—" the other one tried, but fell silent.

Then Ron seemed to reach his breaking point, stood up and snatched the newspaper from them. He read the headline on the front page and froze with a horrified look on his face. Harry stuffed the half-finished toast into his mouth and leaned over to peer over Ron's shoulder to see what all the fuss was about.

Across the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ in large black letters read: _Halloween Attack: Ottery St. Catchpole goes up in flames!_

But it wasn't the headline that caught Harry's attention, no. It was the large black and white picture underneath it.

In the middle of the picture, on a sea of corpses, stood no other than the Dark Lord, just as dark and tall and intimidating as ever. He was holding his wand loosely in his right hand, whilst gazed impassively at the burning houses in the background. While Harry watched, the Dark Lord slowly turned around in picture and seemed to notice the photographer for the first time. A small dangerous smile rose to his lips, as he raised the yew wand slowly and cast. The picture faded into white for a moment, before returned again.

Harry huffed. "I'd bet he did that on purpose," he mumbled to himself. The Dark Lord could be unnecessarily overdramatic at times, especially when he knew he had a larger audience. The Dark Lord, who made appearance at the Death Eater gatherings, was an entirely different person from the one, who preferred to sit in the silence of his study and meditate.

"_He did that on purpose_?" Ron repeated incredulously, and Harry remembered that he was, in fact, in the Great Hall, surrounded by people, and therefore, talking to himself might not be the wisest thing to do. Right now Ron and the other Weasleys were staring at him strangely.

"I didn't mean it like that," Harry assured quickly and offered a small guilty smile.

Ron let it drop, but only because he had other things to occupy his mind right then. He turned to Percy with a concerned look on his face.

"Any news from Mum and Dad?" he asked and glanced down at the news paper again.

Percy nodded curtly. "A letter this morning. They're fine. The Fidelius Charm held."

Ron seemed to slump with relief, a sigh leaving his lips. "Thank Merlin," he mumbled.

Harry barely heard the exchange, for he was still busy staring at the picture of the Dark Lord. There was something different about him, something that Harry couldn't quite pinpoint. He still looked half-mad, but also strangely delighted, like he was actually enjoying himself. It was very strange to see such an expression of elation on that familiar face, but it made Harry feel lighter inside.

"What the hell are _you _smiling about?" Ron's angry voice asked. Harry looked up and blinked. He hadn't even realized he was smiling. He quickly smoothed his expression into a more neutral one, but then it was too late already. "Do you find this _funny_? An entire village was destroyed last night! Everyone who lived there is dead!"

Harry cleared his throat. "Of course I don't find it funny."

Ron stared at him silently for a while, before spoke again, more quietly and accusingly, "I have heard you call him the Dark Lord."

"I. . ." Harry began, but stopped because Ron spoke the truth. There was no point in denying it. "Yes, I call him the Dark Lord."

The admission made the conversation around them cease. From the corner of his eye Harry could see how people nearby turned towards them curious to hear more.

Ron's face adopted a strangely vacant expression. "Only dark wizards call him _that_."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I have to call him _something_. That whole You-Know-Who business is ridiculous," he countered.

For a brief moment Ron hesitated, uncertainty flickering in his eyes, and for that one moment Harry hoped that Ron would just let it drop. There were many things Harry didn't understand, but one he knew that _this _was not a good topic to be discussing over an entirely Gryffindorish breakfast table.

But it wasn't Ron who spoke next. One of the twins, probably Fred, looked at Harry strangely and said slowly, "I still don't hear him deny it. Do you, George?"

"No, can't say I do. Which does make me wonder. . ." replied the other twin, good humour in his tone, but eyes narrowing ever-so-slightly.

Harry remained stubbornly silent.

"Oh, Godric," Ron moaned and buried his face into his hands. "It's true then."

Harry didn't reply. Everything felt suddenly very calm and distant. He raised his mug of Earl Grey and tasted from it. It reminded him on home.

George Weasley is standing up now, staring at Harry across the table, accusing and agitated. He slammed his hand down on the _Daily Prophet, _pointing at the picture and asked loudly, so that everyone around them surely heard, "How can you agree with _this_?"

Harry looked back at him calmly and defiantly. "I don't."

The brief confused silence that followed lasted for a total of seven seconds, before several people started to talk at once.

"But you just said—" began a girl, whose name Harry didn't know.

While Ron was saying, "You lying son of a—"

"Leave the kid alone, he's clearly—" tried someone, who Harry didn't know either.

It was Percy Weasley's sharp bark of, "Everyone _shut up_!" that returned the expectant silence to the Gryffindor table.

In that silence Harry spoke, before anyone else could. "I disagree with him about most of his ideas," he told, glanced at the picture on the paper, and added, "And his. . . ideals." His voice was low and quiet, but so steady it surprised even him. "But I will _always _stand by him because. . ."

Because why?

Because the Dark Lord was everything Harry had and all he really cared about. Because, despite the Dark Lord's questionable morals and his murderous rampages, he was still the most brilliant person Harry knew. Because Harry knew that the Dark Lord had his reasons for doing what he did, even though not many understood them—Harry included. Because every passing day at Hogwarts made Harry miss him more and more.

But Harry didn't want to tell any of this to _anyone_, let alone a bunch of ignorant and already biased school mates. So, Harry locked all those becauses into his heart and kept them to himself.

". . .because that's what I do," Harry finished instead and sighed. "And there's nothing you can do to change that."

The silence that followed rang hard and true among the Gryffindors.

First one to react was a dark-haired third-year girl, who slowly stood up, eyes blazing and her lips narrowing into a dangerous line. Before anyone could as much as react, the girl had levelled her wand at Harry. Her hand was shaking, but the aim was steady.

"You. . . you. . ." she stammered for words, but they seemed to fail her altogether. Instead she let out an ear-splitting scream of anguish. Before she could cast, though, another Gryffindor girl, a friend of hers, grasped her wrist with a scared look on her face.

"Alicia! Stop it!"

"Don't you hear, Angelina? You _heard, _didn't you? He's one of _them_," this Alicia screeched, loud and distressed. Her unforgiving glare was wild and angry, and all Harry could do was blink owlishly back. He had not been expecting _this_. But then again, he hadn't really been expecting anything, since it had all happened so fast that Harry still wasn't sure what was going on or what would follow.

"You're going to get yourself into trouble," Angelina warned, but she too shot a wary glance at Harry from the corner of her eye.

"He's a _Death Eater_," Alicia snarled back, like that explained all.

Harry laughed. He didn't mean to, but it just escaped him, this uncontrollable and cheerful little chuckle.

It was a mistake, of course. Everyone's eyes were again strained at him, heavy and judging.

"You're mad," Ron told him, "Completely mental.

Harry tried to get his mirth under control again and shook his head quickly. "No, I'm not. But didn't you hear her? A Death Eater? I'm _eleven,_ for Merlin's sake! As if the Dark Lord would have any use for an eleven-year-old who just about knows how to hold his wand." Harry grinned and tried to imagine the Dark Lord's reaction, if he had heard this utter nonsense. Sadly, no one else shared his sentiments.

Angelina eventually managed to tug Alicia's wand hand down, but the tension remained. The scowls Harry was receiving were getting more grave and wary by minute.

"People like you," Ron said next and Harry turned to look at him, "Are the reason why this world is way it is."

The irritation that had been building up in Harry's chest turned into a surprising flare of anger.

"Is that so?" he asked sharply and stood up. He let his eyes sweep across the Gryffindors. "And yet here we are. All of _you _ganging up against _me, _and somehow this is my fault? Perhaps the world wouldn't be the way it is, if you lot learned to mind your own business, and let other people to worry about theirs."

Harry had barely made it to the end of his sentence, when a sharp tug at his elbow interrupted him. He glanced over his shoulder, and came face to face with Draco Malfoy. Harry was mildly surprised to see him there, especially since it meant that this little exchange had already reached across the Great Hall to Slytherin table, too. Harry wondered how loud he had been speaking. Not that it mattered, Harry was well beyond caring at this point.

"Harry, let it go," Draco told him, his voice urgent and slightly panicked. "You're going to get yourself cursed, if you carry on like this, you stupid bastard!"

"Shut up, Malfoy. I'm not done here," Harry ordered, and for one reason or another Draco did shut up. Harry turned back towards his house mates. "Clearly, if there is something all witches and wizards are good at, it's bigotry, and that applies to both sides of this ridiculous little war."

The tug at his elbow turned into a forceful yank, and Harry fell of the bench, stumbled backwards, and barely landed on his feet. He shot an angry glare at Draco, who didn't pay him any mind, merely shot a small sarcastic smirk towards the rest of the Gryffindors.

"As lovely as this has been, Harry and his opinions is sorely needed elsewhere," he said, and executed an exaggerated, mocking, bow. "So, please, enjoy this newest piece of gossip."

Then he swirled around on his heels, took a firm hold on Harry's arm, and started to haul him from the Great Hall. When they stepped through the large double doors, the murmur they had left behind had exploded out of proportion. Draco let go of Harry's arm, but didn't say anything. He seemed to be in some kind of a strange state between anger and wonder, trying to decide whether to kill Harry or not. Harry let him weigh is options in peace, since Harry himself didn't feel particularly talkative at the moment.

Their first class was shared Potions with both Gryffindor and Slytherin. Draco had rather forcefully made Harry partner with him for the day's task, but Harry hadn't bothered with protests. Somehow, he didn't think that his Gryffindor year mates would appreciate his company on that particular day.

The class begun normally, with Snape barking out directions, orders and insults, and they had quickly moved on to the day's potion, a healing paste of some sort. Harry half expected Draco to have a go at him, insult his intelligence a few times and move on, but for the first half an hour nothing of the like happened. When Harry half way through the class dared to sneak a glance at him, Draco didn't look angry, like Harry had expected, but thoughtful.

"Is this silent treatment or what?" Harry asked, mostly out of curiosity, as he turned up the heat under their cauldron.

Draco shot him a sharp glance, but didn't immediately respond. After a while, he spoke almost casually, but in a hushed voice, so that no one could over hear them, "So, undying loyalty to the Dark Lord, is it?"

Harry hummed in reply, and focused to dice the root in front of him. It didn't really matter one way or another, what Draco had to say about the matter; it was too late to take any of it back.

"Do you remember that conversation we had on the train?" Draco continued and mixed their potion clockwise. "The one about you being a daft git."

Harry huffed, but couldn't help a small smile. "I don't think you used the word 'git' back then."

"Well, I _should _have," Draco told him firmly. "Because you certainly _are _a daft git. What the hell were you thinking?"

"Just remembered what you said," Harry sighed, and tossed the chopped dices into the cauldron. The potion sizzled angrily. "'You will eventually have to pick a side, Harry!' That's how it went, wasn't it? And it's exactly what I did, too."

Draco turned to look at Harry with disbelief. "And you just _had to _do it at the Gryffindor table like that? You couldn't have just, I don't know, _been more subtle about it_!"

Harry set down his knife and turned to look back at Draco.

"I am not ashamed of believing in him. I haven't done anything wrong. I haven't killed or anyway harmed anyone in his name. I don't intend to harm anyone in his name, even if he asked me to. This is _his _war and I will not fight it for him. But I _will _stand by him through it, because, as I said, that's what I do. I've always done and always will," Harry explained. Somehow it felt almost like a vow.

Draco was staring at Harry, clearly pondering what to make of it all. When he finally spoke, all he said was, "I don't suppose I can blame you for that one."

"No, you really can't."

"It was stupid, though. Just so you know."

"I know, thank you."

Silence settled between them again, as they continued working. Harry could feel the glances he received every now and then, and he heard the silent murmurs and conversations. This soon it was impossible to tell how much damage had occurred, but time would show. Although, Harry did grow mildly worried, when Ron Weasley shot him a particularly poisonous glare across the room.

"If I'm murdered in my sleep tonight, will you do me a favour?" Harry asked from Draco.

"Depends on what it is."

"Make sure they mention on my gravestone that I did for the Dark Lord," Harry told, "Perhaps, he'll bring a few flowers to my grave."

It was a ridiculous, of course, but it served its purpose, as Draco let out a nearly startled laugh. He quieted down quickly, though, when Snape shot a crushing glare into their general direction.

"I'll see what I can do," the Slytherin promised, smirking slightly.

"Thanks."

Harry watched curiously how their potion slowly turned turquoise, and skimmed again over the description in their textbook. The colour was right, the texture could use some work still. When he let the book lower, he found Draco staring at him, intent and slightly suspicious.

"What?" Harry asked, slightly alarmed and not entirely sure why.

"You know, sometimes when you speak about him, it sounds almost like. . ." Draco hesitated and shrugged, before finished, "Almost like you actually _know_ him."

The words surprised Harry some, maybe because he had never really given much thought to it.

Draco may know all kinds of things that baffled Harry beyond belief. He may know what was appropriate way to act in any company. And he may know about the politics of the wizarding world and the reasons behind this war. He may even know how to make this stupid potion thicker and more doughy, like it was supposed to be. But Draco knew _nothing _about the Dark Lord. _No one _knew anything about the Dark Lord, except for Harry who knew very little, but which was still more than anyone else alive.

Harry couldn't help the wide grin that spread on his face, as he purposefully left the implied question unanswered. Let Draco wonder to his heart's content. Harry was suddenly feeling lighter and happier than he had felt all day.

…o0o…

There were times, more frequently recently, when Albus Dumbledore felt his respectable years weigh upon his shoulders unnecessarily heavily. In uncertain times like these, it was understandable, though very much unwelcome, as well. He simply didn't have the time to sit in his office and feel the ache spreading in his limbs and wait for the shaky unsteadiness of his hands to pass.

A small sigh escaped Headmaster Dumbledore, as he popped a sherbet lemon into his mouth, and chewed on it to calm his restlessly running thoughts.

Sometimes, on days likes these, he had found himself entertaining careful, secret, thoughts about retiring. Of course, he'd never actually act on those thoughts—no, the world needed him too much, _especially _on days like these—but still, the idea sometimes sneaked in, unbidden and tempting. What would it be like, those unhurried and calming days, without responsibilities and constant worrying about everything and everyone? Boring, without a doubt, but also easy and forgiving.

Albus sighed again, and let a small wistful smile climb onto his face. There was no place for easy and forgiving in his life, he had lost his right to those a long time ago. And yet, two Dark Lords in one life time were surely more than anyone should have been forced to handle.

It had been years ago, when they had last spoken, but Gellert had said something that Albus could not quite forget.

"You might have defeated me, Albus, but don't take that as a guarantee," Gellert Grindelwald had said, and smiled in that particular way, that had always made Albus respond with a smile of his own. "You are _old_, and the rashness and endurance of youth has long left you. This new Lord will be the death of yours, should you oppose him like you once opposed me. Especially, since he lacks all of _my_ weaknesses, whereas yours has remained the same."

Ah, Gellert, the stubborn fool. Even when his sanity had long ago deteriorated, his sharp mind had prevailed to serve as a memento of the old days. And he was right, of course, as irritating as it was to admit that. This war _would _be the end of one Albus Dumbledore, one way or another. However, he had made a promise that he would not go down easily, and when he did he would ensure that the Dark Lord Voldemort would either come down with him, or follow soon after.

But at this age, Albus could not achieve that end alone, and probably the only person who could aid him, had just this morning declared that his loyalties laid with Voldemort. At breakfast table even! To be a growing boy at the age of eleven, and prioritise a vow of allegiance before breakfast. . . Well, let's just say that there stood all the proof Albus needed, about the honesty of that declaration.

All humour aside, though, it _was_ very alarming. It was nearly impossible not to detect a pattern here, the pattern of Dark Lords and their ever-faithful vanquishers. Fate, if you wanted to call it that, certainly had a most spectacularly ironic way of running its course.

A silver device on Albus' desk dinged once, then, alarming him to the approaching guest. Albus straightened on his chair ever-so-slightly, and politely pushed the bowl of sherbet lemons closer to the other edge of the desk, near the chair on the other side. Although, it was very unlikely that Severus Snape would accept anything edible he hadn't prepared himself. Decades of studying the most remarkable potions and poisons was enough to make anyone paranoid of what they put in their mouths, and Severus had never been trustful sort to begin with.

Barely a minute had passed, when a sharp knock at the door interrupted Albus' good natured musings, and the Potion Master stepped in, without waiting for a reply.

"Ah, Severus! Good afternoon," Albus greeted jovially, while in the silence of his mind tried to come up with anything that could have made this particular afternoon _good_. There wasn't much that would have warranted that particular adjective.

Severus replied with a terse nod, and seated himself onto the chair on the other side of Albus' desk.

"A sherbet lemon?" Albus offered, and waved a hand towards the bowl.

"No. You wished to talk," Severus replied, ever the talkative and polite one, and Albus merely hummed in reply, reaching for the bowl himself. He popped a lemony sweet in his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully for awhile, before replied.

"I fear that you were right from the beginning, Severus," he told the Potions Master. He pressed the tips of his fingers together and gazed over his hands at the man who merely quirked a questioning eyebrow in reply. Headmaster offered a small smile and continued sadly, "Harry Potter might already be beyond our reach."

"You refer to the little. . . spectacle this morning," Severus nodded his understanding, the usual disdain appearing into his tone.

"Spectacle. . . Yes, although, that might not be the word I would have used," Albus admitted and sighed again. "I believe young mister Potter has made his stance on the matters rather clear to everyone now."

"It would seem so," Severus replied, his words as few and scarce and unforgiving as always. Albus had to suppress another smile. For some strange reason, he did enjoy these conversations with Severus, as excruciating and exhausting as they sometimes were.

If the years had taught Albus anything at all, it was patience, so he merely sat there and waited for the extended silence to work its magic.

And after a while Severus did speak again, "It has caused something of a buzz among the students. Classs today have been. . . most enlightening, though even more torturous than usually."

"Ah, I suspected this would happen," Albus nodded. "After the initial reaction among the student body, I have worried mildly for Mr. Potter's safety."

Severus visibly bit back the first reply that crossed his mind, and instead said dryly, "That is not quite what I meant."

"Oh?"

"It is no secret that many in the house of Slytherin share Potter's sentiments," Severus said bluntly. "Especially some of the older students seem to find Potter's little declaration rather _inspiring_."

Albus let his eyes close. "I see."

How had he not seen this before, however_, _was a mystery.

After all, it was _obvious_ now that it was presented before him so blatantly. He could almost taste it in the air, this slight promise of a revolution. It was already out _there,_ in the outside world, beyond the strong walls and wards of Hogwarts, so he had suspected it would find a crack to sweep in here, too.

Following Voldemort, and his gruelling and hard leadership, had been a taboo for decades. It was guerrilla warfare on their part, no one knew who they were or where they came from. No names and no faces, an unknown opponent. But the change was already happening. People _wanted _to make their stance known, they wanted their opinion to be accounted for. More and more wizarding folk wanted to offer their open and unhindered support to the Lord of Dark and his cause.

So far, everyone had been too afraid of the consequences to do just so, but there were people who weren't afraid, who were unwavering and steady in their loyalty. One day soon those few people would make their stand and speak up. The words they spoke would be heard, and those words would change the world. Albus knew that it was only a matter of time.

When the Sorting Hat had placed Harry Potter into Gryffindor, Albus had been pleasantly surprised. What he had _not _expected, was that Harry's special brand of Gryffindor bravery would be declaring his support for Voldermort for all the world to hear. However, it was a brave deed, indeed, to stand behind one's beliefs so firmly, that much Albus had to admit. Still, Albus feared that the deep devotion Harry Potter showed was given for all the wrong reasons, without knowing the other options. That could hardly be called true loyalty.

Nevertheless, if Severus' cautious warning was anything to go by, similar declarations would be soon heard from elsewhere, too. Albus would have never guessed that this change which he had been expecting with dread, could very well start within this very _school_, right under his nose. Most of the students were still children—and too young to decide—and the few who had reached adulthood had grown up in the era of caution—which had made them too careful to choose.

But then again, young people had always been most welcoming to new and exciting ideas. All revolutions were fuelled with the burning fierceness of youth.

Albus was too old and blind to see or remember things like these. One day he'd pay dearly for it, but today was not the day.

"I see," he repeated and sighed.

Albus Dumbledore stood up from behind his desk, ignored the sharp ache in his knees, and crossed the room to one of the high windows, where he stood gazing across the courtyard.

"What will you do?" Severus asked after awhile, curious and cautious at the same time.

"I will do what I must," Albus replied, sure and serene. He had always done his duty, and he would always do it.

"Potter will not react well, if you try to turn him against the Dark Lord," Severus warned. "If you attempt anything, he will fight you."

"Oh, I rather believe that Voldemort has done his very best to make sure that Mr. Potter already mistrusts me," Albus pointed out, letting out a short good humoured laugh. "I would expect nothing less."

Severus remained silent for a moment, clearly wondering, but decided to let it go. "You better know what you're doing, Headmaster, or this little game of yours will once again end in tragedy."

Albus heard the warning in the words, just as clearly as he heard Lily's memory behind it. He sighed a little, and glanced at the Potion Master from the corner of his eye. "I will try my utmost best to resolve this conflict in a way that allows Mr. Potter to continue on with his life once it is over."

But Severus had always been sharper than most, and more honest in his own, indirect, way. "And yet, if you feel his death is necessary for your cause, you will not regret it," he said, and the accusation rang in the words loud and clear.

Albus didn't reply. He merely hummed noncommittally, and thought about the Mirror.

…o0o…

_- tbc -_

…o0o…


End file.
